Mortals In Mandos
by Fiondil
Summary: First there was Boromir, but eventually all of the Mortals of the Fellowship died, but they did not continue past the Circles of Arda. Rather, they decided to wait in Mandos for one person. A series of interconnected stories featuring the Fellowship.
1. Drawing Straight With Crooked Lines

**1: Drawing Straight With Crooked Lines**

It was getting darker now, and harder... He had already confessed his crime and had heard words of forgiveness from the only person whose opinion mattered anymore, though he did not truly believe them. Still...

One more thing to do...

He tried to reach for his sword, but his strength was failing too fast for him. Then he felt the hilt of the blade in his hand. Now, just this last thing... He looked up into those grey-blue eyes, full of compassion and sorrow and... pride? In him? No matter...

"I would have followed you my brother," he gasped. "My captain... m-my king..."

There. He had said it. "My king." Now he could rest...

"Be at peace, son of Gondor," Aragorn whispered, but Boromir son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor and the Heir to the Steward's throne did not hear those final words of farewell, nor feel the king's kiss upon his forehead...

0-0-0-0

_I failed... I failed._

It was the only thing he could think of in this place, wherever he was.

He looked about disinterestedly. It was a hall, though no hall he ever remembered visiting, it's walls covered with bright tapestries in which the figures seemed to move, or perhaps it was just the wind, though he could not feel any breeze. Banners hung from the beams above, and somewhere there was light, though he could not tell from where it was coming. It was also empty, except for him. And there seemed to be no end to it.

He wasn't sure how he had gotten there — one minute looking up into Aragorn's eyes, the next... here.

No matter... He had failed, and now he would pay.

"Are you so sure of that, my son?"

Boromir turned with a gasp, reaching for a sword that was no longer there. "Who... who...?" He found himself face to face with one who appeared to be a Man, tall and lithe, his dark hair long and flowing like an elf's, his eyes grey as those of the Sea Kings of old. He wore a plain black velvet tunic trimmed with black pearls under which there was a shirt of grey watered silk. A thin band of wrought mithril graced his head. But this was no Man, of that Boromir was sure. The light in his eyes spoke of another, older lineage... older even than that of the elves.

The stranger smiled. "I am a friend, Boromir," he said gently, "nothing more. You have no need to fear. Come, tell me why you think you have failed." He motioned towards two ornately carved high-backed chairs facing one another that Boromir was sure had not been there earlier. After a moment's hesitation he followed the stranger and they both sat — Boromir somewhat reluctantly.

"Who are you?" Boromir hissed with barely concealed anger, though he was beginning to guess, and his guesses frightened him. The recent events were beginning to catch up with him and he was suddenly feeling light-headed. He wondered, with the detachment of one who is ill and doesn't care, if anyone had ever thrown up on one of the Powers before.

As if his thoughts had been spoken aloud, the stranger smiled sympathetically, then reached out and gently placed a hand upon the warrior's forehead. Immediately, Boromir felt calmer and the sense of disorientation left him, though not the questions.

"I will answer your questions, son of Gondor," the other said with an amused look as he leaned back into his chair. "All of them, to the best of my ability. But you have not yet answered _my _question."

Boromir looked down, gathering his thoughts, feeling shame spreading through him again as he thought back. "I betrayed my oath," he finally said, speaking softly. Then he looked up, and repeated more firmly, "I betrayed my oath to the Ringbearer. I deserved death and more."

The other nodded. "Perhaps." Then he fell silent and for a long time neither spoke. Somewhere in the distance Boromir thought he heard singing, though the words were indistinct and even the music was so faint he was never sure he was actually hearing anything. Slowly the music faded, leaving the two of them again in silence.

"Now it's your turn," Boromir said with a quirk, a sly grin spreading across his face.

The stranger stared at him for a moment before smiling in return. "Have you not guessed, child?"

"I think you are one of the Powers, perhaps a Maia."

"I am Námo, Lord of Mandos and Doomsman of Arda." The timber of the Vala's voice deepened and a tremor ran through the hall. Boromir felt something that was less than fear but more than joy pierce his soul and suddenly found himself kneeling before the Vala, though he had no conscious memory of doing so.

"Forgive me, Lord," he stammered. "I did not mean to ... to—". Actually he wasn't sure what he did not mean to do, but felt that he should be sorry for it anyway.

Námo leaned down and grabbed Boromir's arms, raising him up until they were both standing. Boromir suddenly realized that the Vala was actually laughing.

"There is nothing to forgive, my son. Your manner is most refreshing. And I am not the one to whom you should kneel. Sit now, and be comforted."

Boromir nodded and resumed his seat, but Námo remained standing, looking down on him, his eyes bright with amusement.

"Tell me what you think might have happened if you had not, as you say, betrayed your oath. What would have happened to the Fellowship if you had remained true?"

Boromir hesitated, unsure where this was going. What would have happened if he had not followed the Ringbearer away from the camp at Parth Galen?

"We would have been together when the orcs attacked," he said slowly, marshalling his thoughts. "There would not have been the confusion—"

Námo shook his head, interrupting. "No, not all would have been there in the camp."

Boromir looked up, nodding. "Frodo. Frodo would have been alone."

"Alone. Yes." The Vala's expression grew grim.

"But he was alone when they came anyway," Boromir said in confusion.

"Alone, but not visible."

Boromir felt his breath catch at that. Could it be? Could his actions in forcing Frodo to put on the Ring when he did have saved the Halfling's life?

"Had Frodo not been invisible, he would have been captured before any of you knew of it and then you would all have died there at Parth Galen."

Boromir bristled and stood up, forcing the Vala to take a step or two back. "How can you say that?"

Námo merely gazed at the Man, a faint smile on his face. "I say it because it is true, or would be if things had gone otherwise." He placed his hands on the Man's shoulders. "Boromir, think. If the Uruk-hai had fallen upon you all without warning, do you think any of you would have survived? It was the fact that you were all scattered about Amon Hen that saved you. The orcs were too many."

"I wasn't saved," Boromir said grimly, sitting back down. "Neither were Merry and Pippin."

"Merry and Pippin are where they need to be," Námo said, resuming his own seat. "You need not worry for them. Their road will be harsh and they will not escape unscathed, for it is after all war, but they will do well and each will fulfill his destiny as he must, even as you did."

Boromir gave the other man a sharp look. "I? Fulfilled my destiny? How? By being a traitor and would-be murderer?"

"No, Boromir," the man said softly. "By giving Frodo the courage to leave the Fellowship before it was completely destroyed."

"Courage?" he asked in disbelief. "What courage could I give him that he did not already possess himself?"

"Your actions forced Frodo to face facts and to deal with them, something he was reluctant to do. Without you he would not have done what needed to be done and all would have been lost. You call yourself a traitor and would-be murderer, and perhaps there is some justification, but it was the Ring working on you, not your true nature. That became apparent when you risked yourself in defense of Merry and Pippin, even unto death."

"For all the good it did."

The other man laughed softly. "You little realize just how much good it will do, mellon nîn."

"But I failed to save them." Boromir protested.

The Vala nodded. "True, but that isn't what you were supposed to do anyway. Merry and Pippin were meant to be captured by the Uruk-hai, just as Frodo and Sam were meant to travel to Mordor alone, and you..." Here he sighed, shaking his head ruefully.

"I was meant to die." Boromir said softly, not looking up. He felt, rather than saw, the other lean over and place a hand on his arm. Looking up he saw nothing but compassion in the Vala's face.

"Faramir should have gone to Imladris in my stead as he was meant to," Boromir finally said. "He wouldn't have —"

"Had Faramir gone in your stead, Boromir, your brother would not have done half as well as you did."

"What?" Boromir leaped up again, ready to defend his little brother even without a sword.

"Peace, mellon nîn," the Vala raised a hand, but whether in command or in supplication, Boromir was not sure. "I speak only truth. Faramir is a worthy son of Gondor and he has an important role yet to play in this game, but he was not the best choice for joining the Fellowship. Frodo needed _you,_ Boromir, at the time when that need was the greatest. Faramir could not have done what you did. But never fear, your brother's quality will shine forth before too long and he will be able to serve the Ringbearer in his own fashion when Frodo most needs his aid."

Boromir sat back down, unconvinced, but unable to marshal any contrary argument. He loved his little brother and grieved that their father did not appreciate Faramir's qualities. He did not regret that Faramir, and not he, would become the next Steward of Gondor after Denethor. There seemed to be a rightness to that that he could not readily explain, even to himself. Still...

"Would it help to know that Frodo has forgiven you, knowing that it was the Ring working through you, not you yourself?"

"I did not understand," Boromir said, almost to himself. "I did not see. All I wanted was to save Gondor, to save my people. I... I was afraid." With that admission he felt tears welling and suddenly he was weeping and found he couldn't stop. Námo made no move, but sat there in sympathetic silence, allowing the Man time to compose himself.

"Frodo forgave you, Boromir," Námo finally said, speaking softly, as one would to a distraught child. "And Aragorn. Can you not find it in you to forgive yourself?"

Boromir shrugged noncommittally, then stopped, caught up in a memory. He looked up at the Vala, his expression uncertain. "W-when I looked into Aragorn's eyes—" he stopped, not sure how to continue.

"Go on," the Lord of Mandos said encouraging.

"I saw something there that I did not expect to see."

"And what was that?"

"H-he was proud of me. I could see it in his eyes," Boromir said wondering. "Why would he be proud of me?"

"Can you not guess?"

Boromir shook his head, feeling much as he had as a child when his tutor asked him a question that stumped or confused him.

Námo leaned forward, his expression intent. "You were the first to swear fealty to him as your king. Aragorn will ever treasure that memory, even if he never succeeds to the throne. With your words you gave him hope."

Hope. Boromir breathed deeply, suddenly feeling the tension he had not known was there dissipating, and he felt more hopeful himself, unaware that he was smiling. Námo nodded, as if he saw the answer to a question in that smile, and stood. Boromir found himself standing as well.

"We have a saying among the Valar," Námo said, with a conspiratorial wink. "'Ilúvatar draws straight with crooked lines'".

Boromir shook his head. "I'm not sure what you mean by that, my lord."

The Vala smiled. "No matter. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually."

Silence came between them and for a long moment Boromir wondered what else there was to say.

"What happens now, lord?" he finally asked, not without some trepidation.

Námo shook his head. "That is entirely up to you, my son. You may leave through that door there," pointing towards one end of the hall to a door that Boromir was sure had not been there before. "Or you may remain here until you are ready to move on."

"Remain here?"

Námo nodded. "Others will come through here on their way past the Circles of Arda. Some you will know, others will be complete strangers. Speak to them if you desire, or not. It does not matter. When you are ready to continue your journey this door will be there for you."

Boromir nodded, deep in thought. Then an errant thought struck him and he couldn't resist one last question.

"So, do you do this with everyone, my lord?" he asked teasingly.

Námo laughed, shaking his head. "Only with the more troublesome cases, impudent child."

Boromir blushed in embarrassment. "Sorry," he whispered, as if he were indeed a child caught in some mischief by an elder.

Námo looked upon this Child of Ilúvatar and smiled more deeply than before and the light in the hall seemed to brighten. He took Boromir's head in his hands and, gazing into his eyes, whispered, "Be at peace, son of Gondor," then gently kissed him on the forehead.

Boromir found himself alone.

For long moments that could have been years he stood there, not moving. Then he slowly sat, vaguely aware that the other chair was no longer there. He wondered if he should leave the hall after all, but something held him in his seat, and a decision formed within him.

He would wait and eventually the one for whom he waited would come. Soon or late, it mattered not. When the time came for Aragorn to take the final road and come into this hall, he would find at least one liegeman waiting for his king.

His king...

His...

And suddenly Boromir son of Denethor, one-time Captain-General of Gondor and Heir to the Steward's throne, began to laugh, and the joy of it echoed throughout Mandos, even unto Ilúvatar's Timeless Halls.


	2. Lord Namo's Yule Gift

**2: Lord Námo's Yule Gift**

Námo, Lord of Mandos, stood to one side of the Mardi Envinyanto watching the elves at play. He had been waiting for some time and at last his patience was being rewarded. A door that had not been there before opened and an elleth stepped out, clutching a stuffed toy, looking somewhat fearful. Her Maia attendant stood behind her, encouraging her to join the others.

Námo watched as Eluwen took a tentative step forward. She had been one of the elves escorting the Lady of Imladris on the fateful trip to Lothlórien when the orcs attacked. Eluwen had been taken captive along with Celebrían. The wife of Elrond had been rescued by her sons. Eluwen had not been so lucky.

Now the elleth was ready to join the other fëar in the Halls. Someday she would be Reborn and be reunited with her mistress... and her husband. Námo watched as Ivoriel, a Silvan from Eryn Lasgalen who had died when orcs out of Dol Guldur had attacked her village, came over and introduced herself. When Ivoriel held out her hand Eluwen shyly took it and soon the two ellith were playing together, already fast friends.

As Námo stood there unseen by the elves one of his Maiar servants approached, a rather pained expression on his face. "What is it Maranwë?"

The Maia bowed. "Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord, but... we seem to have a problem."

"Oh?" Námo raised an eyebrow. "Would you care to be more specific?"

"It's the Mortals, or rather two of them..."

Námo's eyes narrowed. "What is the date in the Outer World, Maranwë?"

The Maia looked at his lord in some surprise. "Er... the twenty-fifth of Ringarë, in the year 70 of the Fourth Age as it is now reckoned in Gondor."

The Lord of Mandos closed his eyes and muttered an oath that had every Maia in the Halls raising their eyebrows. One or two even snickered. Maranwë kept his expression carefully neutral. Námo opened his eyes with a sigh.

"Thank you Maranwë. I'll see to it. Keep an eye on things here while I'm gone. We have a new addition to the Family."

Námo cast an eye at Eluwen who was now playing catch-me with Ivoriel and a few others. Maranwë smiled and bowed. "It will be as you wish, my lord."

Námo nodded then strode out of the Halls belonging to the Eldar towards the Mardi Firyaron that belonged to the Mortals. There, Mortals who had recently died reflected on their lives before being sent beyond the circles of Arda. It was supposed to be a place of soothing serenity, conducive to meditation, but if _those two _were there...

He entered the Mardi Firyaron to find himself in the midst of a minor rebellion. Maiar servants bowed as he entered; the Mortals never saw him, leastwise, the adults never did. Some children who were playing catch-me around the fluted marble pillars that graced these Halls stopped and stared at the Lord of Mandos with some trepidation. He smiled and gestured them over. When they came to him he bent down and gave each one a kiss on the forehead in blessing, then sent them off to play. He turned back to watch the adults, many of whom were milling about, muttering in some cases, shouting in others. Námo's expression darkened at what he heard.

"Why can't we have a little cheer even if we are dead?" one soul shouted. "The lad's right. This place is drearier than Mordor even on a good day."

"Yes," said another whom Námo recognized as having been a miserly shopkeeper in Bree. The Man had been known for refusing to celebrate a proper Yule. "I bet the Elves have Halls of light while we get stuck in this dismal place however temporary it may be. Just goes to show you that 'Secondborn' really means 'Second-best'."

Many of the others were in agreement with this sentiment and the muttering became darker. Námo glanced around. Very well, he admitted to himself, these Halls were not as bright as the Halls reserved for the Eldar, but they were not dreary. He liked to think of them as being tastefully low-key, a place for quiet reflection. He looked about at the tapestries gracing the walls. Their colors were muted, true, but they depicted scenes of tranquility, exquisite beauty and simple joys. Fountains quietly splashed in the various courtyards. There were even smaller chambers for those wishing for solitude until they were ready to move on. He honestly didn't know what the Mortals had to complain about._ It's not as if they're planning on taking up permanent residence, _he thought sourly and with some exasperation.

"No, no," squeaked a voice in the midst of the crowd. "That's not what I said."

Námo allowed his Presence to be felt by the Mortals and made his way through the crowd. "And just what did you say, Peregrin Took?" The crowd parted like a wave as the Mortals stepped back in awe and bowed to the Lord of Mandos. He rarely showed himself in these Halls but no one mistook him for anyone but who he was — Námo, Doomsman of Arda.

Námo stopped and stared down at the hobbit. Actually, two hobbits. Standing beside his cousin was Meriadoc Brandybuck. Each hobbit was dressed in his livery — the black and silver of the Guard of Minas Anor for Pippin and the green and brown of the Mark for Merry. Both hobbits went pale at the sight of him. Tentatively, they started to bow but Námo raised a hand to stop them.

"Did not Elessar tell you that you bow to no one? I suggest you take him at his word."

"B-but you're...I mean.. you're... one of Them!" Merry stuttered, rolling his eyes towards a direction that had he known pointed south rather than east where stood Taniquetil and the Thrones of the Valar. Námo hid a smile.

"Indeed," was all the Lord of Mandos said and he allowed the silence to stretch just a bit more than was comfortable. Merry and Pippin gave each other strained looks and shuffled their hairy feet like errant tweenagers.

"Now, tell me what you said, Peregrin Took." Námo allowed his voice to go cold and several of the souls standing about blanched and took a step or two back.

Pippin blushed and stammered. "Er... well... it wasn't anything... er... are we going to be punished?"

Námo raised an amused eyebrow. How typical of the young rapscallion to assume his cousin would share in any punishment meted out to him. Merry rolled his eyes but otherwise did not say anything. "Do you think you should be?" Námo finally asked.

Both hobbits looked down at their feet and shrugged. Námo just stood there, waiting. They looked up again. "You still haven't told me what you said, Peregrin, to upset these souls so. Something about not approving the decor, I believe?"

Now Pippin blushed in mortification. Merry decided it was time to step in and save his beloved cousin once more. "Well, it's like this... er... Sir..." The hobbit swallowed nervously. "It's nearly Yule, you see, at least it was when we... er... that is..."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'died'," Námo commented blandly and watched with amusement as most of the Mortals, including the two hobbits, cringed slightly at the word. Honestly, these Children were too amusing and he loved them dearly.

_As do we all, _Manwë's thought came to him full of solemn joy and Námo could sense the echo of Varda's agreement in the Elder King's words.

"Er... yes, thank you," Merry said in a somewhat strained voice. "So anyway when we got here Pip just sort of mentioned the fact that no one seemed to be celebrating Yule and... er... well..."

"It wouldn't kill you to have a little greenery you know," Pippin said somewhat forcefully, and then gulped when Námo turned his attention back to him.

Before Námo could reply, however, something dropped out of the air. Námo looked down to see ropes of balsam draped about his shoulders. Then something else fell on his head. Rolling his eyes towards his brow the Lord of Mandos saw a balsam wreath. There were four white candles, all lit, nestled in the wreath with gold and silver ribbons streaming all about.

_YAVANNA! YOU ARE SO DEAD!_

Laughter echoed through his mind. Neither the balsam ropes nor the wreath disappeared, though. The hobbits gave him a critical look.

"Yes, something like that," Pippin said somewhat mendaciously, "but you're supposed to hang the ropes up, not drape them around you... er... my lord."

Merry dared to snicker and one or two of the other Mortals standing about turned away. Námo suspected they were trying hard not to laugh. The Maiar did their best to keep straight faces.

_They had better, _Námo thought sourly, _or I'll show them what my wrath really means._

_Now, dear, you know your servants aren't afraid of you,_ came the amused thought of his beloved spouse, Vairë. _They've seen you at your worst. Why the last time you pulled a Wrath-of-Mandos on them, Olórin and Maranwë simply laughed._

Námo mentally cringed at that reminder. Honestly, he got no respect these days! Now more than one Vala's laughter echoed in his mind at that thought.

"The wreath is a nice touch, though," a Woman said wistfully.

Námo tried to give her his most withering look, one that would have normally sent balrogs screaming, but his heart wasn't in it. She just looked at him and smiled. He resisted the temptation to sigh as he turned back to the hobbits.

"Is this better?" At once the ropes of balsam and the wreath disappeared. There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the Mortals followed by gasps of surprise and delight. Some even clapped like excited children, including the children. The Hall was suddenly bedecked with balsam ropes wrapped around every pillar. The ropes were intertwined with gold and silver ribbons. Floating in the air above them was not just one candle-lit wreath but dozens, all casting a warm golden glow throughout the Hall.

Merry did his best to act nonchalant, giving a brief nod. "It's a start."

Námo had to give the hobbit credit. Few would have the nerve to speak to him in that fashion. He suddenly understood why Olórin had found them so fascinating.

_And amusing, my lord, _came the thought from the Maia who was seeing to the needs of one of the recently Reborn still trying to come to grips with physical reality. Olórin never ventured into the Mardi Firyaron, preferring not to have to meet with his dear Mortal friends one last time only to have to see them leave forever. Námo respected the Maia's decision. _Especially these two. May I suggest that you count the silver before you send them on their way, my lord. _Námo could almost see the Maia's eyebrow lift with wry amusement.

_Never mind the silver. _That was Varda. _You better hope they leave Mandos still standing. These two wreaked havoc across half of Middle-earth during the War. I don't want any complaints from you because half your Halls go up in smoke._

Námo refused to dignify that last remark with an answer. Pippin, meanwhile, was nodding. "Very nice, but I'm not going to kiss you."

"You're not going to _what_?"

Pippin's eyes traveled upwards and Námo almost flinched when he saw a mistletoe ball spinning slowly above him.

"Fárëa, Yavanna!" Námo exclaimed aloud and several souls gasped; some even looked around as if expecting to see the Earth-Queen standing there. Námo reached up and grabbed the ball, throwing it into the Void, his visage dark and forbidding. All the candles went dark and the Mortals cowered and moaned.

Yavanna's disapproval could be felt through their sanwë-menta. _Don't be such a killjoy, love, you're upsetting the poor dears._

_I'll do a lot more than that if you don't stop!_

_Oooh, promises, promises, _and her laughter echoed throughout the Halls as the candles flamed. Some of the Mortals cheered.

"Well, that's better," the former shopkeeper from Bree said somewhat petulantly. "It's about time we Mortals got something out of dying beyond a 'Thanks for visiting Arda and don't bother to come back' from the damn Valar and their pet Elves."

There was an audible gasp from the crowd. Námo stared at the Man in disbelief, then smiled in a way that was not pleasant to see as he took a step towards the offending Mortal. Several souls made hasty retreats. Merry and Pippin actually jumped out of the way and Námo saw two of his Maiar gather the children and herd them into one of the smaller chambers. The shopkeeper was rooted to the spot, pinned by the Lord of Mandos' merciless gaze.

Esric Thistlewood trembled and tried to utter an apology but Námo held a finger to the Mortal's lips to still his voice, then he gently stroked Esric's cheek. Esric's eyes widened and the ecstacy that the shopkeeper felt coursing through his fëa forced him to his knees, moaning like a lover. Námo never stopped caressing Esric's cheek and his voice, when he spoke, was soft and dreamy, which made it all the more terrifying.

"Beloved, I think you should concern yourself less with your imagined grievances against the Firstborn and the Valar and concentrate on how you will face the Source of your existence. I am sure he would be interested in hearing all about how you cheated your customers and employees over the years."

The Lord of Mandos then pulled the now weeping Mortal to his feet, then gathered him into his arms. "Hush, my dearest. No more tears." He kissed the Man on the brow and then on the lips. Esric arched his back and screamed over and over again while Námo held him until the last shudder fled the Man's fëa and he collapsed further into Námo's embrace, nearly unconscious, a dreamy, almost satiated expression on his face. Námo kissed him once more on the brow as he silently called one of his Maiar to him.

"Go and reflect on what I've just said," the Lord of Mandos said quietly and handed Esric over to the Maia who scooped the Man into his arms as if he were no more than a child and calmly walked towards one of the smaller meditation chambers. The doors opened silently to admit the Maia and his charge and closed just as silently after them. Then, for good measure, the door disappeared, leaving a smooth section of wall where a tapestry hung.

Námo stood there in a sea of absolute silence while the Mortals around him stared at him in awe and dread. "Anyone else?" he asked in a genial manner without looking at any of them.

There were no takers.

_Feel better?_ Manwë asked wryly.

_Immensely,_ Námo replied with a smile in his thoughts though outwardly he looked as forbidding to the Mortals as ever. Then he turned towards the hobbits. Pippin looked positively green. Merry was staring blankly at him, his hands fumbling at his waist and Námo suddenly realized with some amusement that the hobbit was attempting to find his sword, no doubt to try to protect his younger cousin from Námo's wrath.

"Swords are no good here, young Meriadoc," Námo said quietly and the hobbit stilled, looking like... well to be truthful, the Lord of Mandos thought, looking like death warmed over. He took a step or two closer to them and Pippin moaned. Merry put an arm around his cousin's shoulders but his eyes never left Námo's. It was obvious to all that the two hobbits wanted to flee, but like poor Esric, were rooted to the spot, pinned there by Námo's will. Then the Vala did a surprising thing. He knelt before the two hobbits and slowly gathered them into his arms, giving each a kiss on the brow. He rubbed their backs as they stood stiffly in his embrace until they began to relax. Then he stood up. He smiled gently down at the hobbits and was pleased when Peregrin attempted a small smile himself. "That's better. Come now, it's time for you to leave."

Taking their hands he led them away from the other Mortals who stood still and silent watching them go. Námo escorted them to another chamber. The hobbits looked around with some interest. The chamber was actually a rough-hewn cavern through which a dark river ran. The light was dim and the hobbits could not see where the river entered or left the grotto. There was a wharf to which was moored a swan-shaped boat, it's pearl-grey sides shining faintly in the dimness.

"Where are we going?" Pippin asked curiously.

Námo pointed to the boat. "That will take you beyond the circles of Arda and into the Presence."

The hobbits looked doubtfully at the Vala. "But we just got here," Merry protested.

"One would think you were trying to get rid of us," Pippin added shrewdly.

_And one would be correct, _came Manwë's thought, though there was no condemnation in his tone.

Námo sighed. _Do you have a better suggestion, my liege? _Námo rarely spoke to Manwë in the mode of vassal to lord, though that was the true relationship between them. When he did it was in acknowledgment that Manwë, being first in the Thought of Eru, was his superior in all things. Manwë preferred to act the role of elder brother to the other Valar, though, and only exerted his authority as Elder King over them when absolutely necessary. This was one of those times.

_I do not, best beloved, _Manwë answered gently._ I merely point out that there's no real reason to send these delightful Children from our presence so soon. Eru does not demand that they come before Him now and is willing to wait until they are ready to leave._

_I have a terrible feeling they will never be ready to leave, _Námo thought with a sigh. _I think they'll be having too much fun causing mischief here to want to leave ever._

Manwë's laughter echoed through Námo's mind. _A risk we will have to take, but I do not think it will come to that. They will stay only until Elessar comes._

_But..._

_Others await the High King, _Manwë reminded him gently. _Or have you forgotten?_

_No, my lord. _Námo gave Manwë a mental bow in acquiescence. _I just hope we survive the next thirty-eight years until Elessar arrives._

Manwë laughed again, and it seemed to the hobbits standing there that they heard bells ringing in the distance but could not be sure. _It will be as Eru decrees, Vorondanya, _Manwë said and withdrew his mind from Námo's.

"Indeed."

"Sorry, did you say something?"

That was Merry. Námo looked down at the hobbits. "If you desire it you may leave Arda now."

"And if we do not desire it?" Pippin asked, looking defiant and fearful at the same time.

Námo shook his head and smiled. "Then you may remain here until such time as you are ready to pass beyond the circles of Arda. Remember, though, you are mortals and cannot linger here forever. Eventually, you must leave, but you need not leave today. Do you wish to leave now?"

Both hobbits shook their heads. Námo nodded. "So be it. Come with me." He led them out of the grotto and down another Hall.

"Merry," Pippin exclaimed as he and Merry trailed after the Lord of Mandos. "I'm hungry."

Both Merry and Námo stopped short in disbelief. Pippin nearly collided with the Vala. Námo started to respond to the hobbit's outrageous statement but Merry beat him to it.

"We're dead, Pip. The dead can't feel hunger."

"We're also hobbits, Merry," Pippin retorted smugly. "Hobbits are always hungry. What does being dead have to do with anything?"

Merry threw up his hands and rolled his eyes, then glared at Námo. "If you don't kill him, I will."

"But Merry, you just said that I'm already dead," the once Thain of the Shire piped up, doing his best to look like a confused tweenager. Pippin then turned to the Lord of Mandos, concern written all over his face. "He can't kill me if I'm already dead...can he?"

Námo hid a smile. He had not paid much attention to the hobbits who had passed through Mandos, but if these two were any indication of this race's character, he vowed to pay closer attention from now on. Mischievous or not, silly or not, they were indeed delightful Children.

"I might let him try, just for amusement's sake," Námo said with a straight face and was rewarded with an audible gulp from Pippin. He stared at the younger hobbit for several minutes, allowing the implications of his words to truly sink in.

_You're enjoying yourself too much, brother, _came a thought from nearby Lórien.

Námo smiled at his younger brother in the Thought of Eru. _You think?_

Irmo snorted at that but made no further comment. Námo finally allowed a small friendly smile to grace his visage. "Shall we go on?" Both hobbits nodded, Pippin looking somewhat subdued, as if he knew he might have crossed a line he shouldn't have with his outrageousness.

As they continued along the passage towards a particular Hall, Merry asked a question that had been plaguing him for a while. "Sir, back there... with old Esric...wh-what happened to him?"

Námo stopped with a frown, but when he saw the genuine concern, even fear, in both hobbits' eyes, he sighed and knelt down to be at eye level with them. They looked so much like the children of Men that he could see how others would easily make the mistake of treating them that way.

"Esric Thistlewood was not harmed," Námo explained softly. "Do not fear for him, or yourselves."

"But...h-he was screaming," Merry protested, nearly in tears and both hobbits were suddenly trembling.

"Hush, now, Meriadoc. Those were not shrieks of agony you heard, but ones of joy."

"J-joy?" Pippin whispered in disbelief.

"Yes, Peregrin. Joy. For a brief moment in Time, Esric Thistlewood was embraced by divine Love and the ecstacy of that encounter was greater than any physical ecstacy he might have known in his life. I gave him a foretaste of what he will experience when he comes before the Throne of Ilúvatar."

Both hobbits visibly paled at that and trembled even more. Pippin even had to grasp Námo's arm to steady himself. "W-will that happen t-to us?" he asked in a strained whisper.

Námo smiled warmly. "Oh yes, my Children," and then he reached out and took Pippin into his embrace and kissed him on the lips though the hobbit tried to resist. As soon as he felt the kiss, Pippin moaned and crumbled to the floor, his head on Námo's knees.

"Pippin!" Merry shrieked in shock to see his beloved cousin collapse, but Námo took him into his embrace before he could move and kissed him as well. Merry shuddered, then moaned as he too collapsed, falling deeper into the Vala's arms. The two hobbits huddled against the Lord of Mandos, lost in a sea of divine Love such as they had never experienced. They did not shriek as Esric Thistlewood had, for both hobbits tried mightily to resist what was happening to them, though Námo knew that their resistance was crumbling.

How long it lasted, neither hobbit knew, but as the final, deepest wave washed over them, they finally gave themselves over to the ecstacy and both began shrieking, writhing in the throes of divine Love, as Námo held them, supporting them through the experience. He continued holding them through the final spasms. For several minutes afterwards the hobbits just lay there soaking up the waves of contentment that now flowed over them like gentle sea-foam. Both were moaning in satiated pleasure.

Merry finally pulled away slightly from Námo's embrace. "Th-thank you," he rasped.

Námo smiled. "You are most welcome, child."

Pippin looked up from where he still crouched by Námo's knees, his face suffused with awe. "Is it...does my Diamond and M-merry's Estella know such... joy?"

"Oh no, best beloved," Námo replied. "What you felt was but a pale echo of the joy your beloved wives are experiencing even now as they stand before the Presence."

"P-pale..." Merry began.

"... c-copy?" Pippin finished.

The two hobbits looked at the Vala in disbelief. Námo nodded, then drew Merry closer to him. The former Master of Buckland moaned and closed his eyes trying to resist but Námo held his head and kissed him gently on the brow. The hobbit shuddered, then collapsed with a sigh and curled up, resting his head on Námo's knee, fast asleep. Pippin watched wide-eyed and wondering as Námo pulled him up into his embrace. The former Thain also tried to resist but Námo was implacable and soon he too collapsed against the Vala, falling into a deep sleep.

They slept for some time, while in the Outer World Elessar and Arwen led the funeral procession taking their bodies to their final resting place in the Rath Dinen. Soon, though, they woke, first Merry and then Pippin, both with bemused expressions on their faces.

Merry looked up at the Vala smiling down at them and blushed as he sat up. "Sorry, didn't mean to fall asleep."

"But I meant you to," Námo replied then stood up and pulled the two hobbits after him, steadying them with a hand on their backs. Placing them in deep sleep had been a deliberate move on his part, for it helped in easing their memories of their Encounter with the Divine. As long as they remained within the circles of Arda, even in death, it was best they not retain such memories, except dimly.

"Do you still want to stay?" he asked gently.

Merry and Pippin exchanged a look then turned to Námo and nodded. "We promised Strider we wouldn't leave without him," Pippin explained.

"Though I don't think he would mind if we didn't stay," Merry added somewhat wistfully.

"We did promise, though," Pippin insisted, though it was obvious to the Lord of Mandos that the hobbit was torn between two desires. "So, I guess..."

He let the thought trail off and Námo nodded in full understanding of what they were feeling.

"Well, I know the perfect place where you can await Elessar's coming."

He led them a little further along until they turned a corner and found themselves in a short corridor with but a single door at the end, which opened silently for them as they approached. Inside the hobbits found themselves in a hall of Men, gaily decorated with banners and tapestries and standing together at one end...

"Boromir!" Pippin exclaimed with delight as he ran towards the late Captain-General of Gondor.

"Éomer!" Merry cried out as he followed his cousin towards the late King of Rohan.

"Merry!" "Pippin!" the two Men cried simultaneously and opened their arms. For a time the four of them greeted each other joyfully, quite forgetting the Vala's presence.

When the initial excitement died somewhat, Éomer asked, "When did you get here, my friends?"

"It hasn't been very long," Merry answered, then paused. "At least it seems as if we have just arrived."

"Your funerals were yesterday," Námo said, coming forward. The two Men gave the Vala deep bows.

"Yesterday?" Pippin asked, looking at the Vala incredulously.

Námo nodded. "You died on the twenty-fifth. It is now the twenty-ninth. Tomorrow is First Yule."

"But... that can't be right, can it?" Merry glanced at the two Men for confirmation. Éomer shrugged. Boromir smiled, shaking his head.

"Time runs differently here than in the Outer World. If Éomer is to be believed, I have been dead myself for sixty-five years, yet I would swear to any oath that I arrived only yesterday and my Lord Námo and I were having a most interesting conversation." He looked at the Lord of Mandos and gave him a smile and a brief wink (2). Námo's smile was brilliant in turn.

"And I would swear that I have only been here a few short hours," Éomer said.

Námo shook his head and smiled gently at the Rohir King. "Seven years have passed since you came here, my son."

Éomer nodded, accepting the Vala's word. The hobbits still looked confused and not a little worried. Boromir put a comforting arm around each of their shoulders. "Don't worry, Little Ones. You get used to it after awhile."

"So you wish to await Elessar's coming as well, dear friends?" Éomer asked, changing the subject.

"Is that what you're doing?" Pippin asked and the two Men nodded.

The two hobbits looked at the Vala standing beside them. "We can wait here with Boromir and Éomer?" Merry asked.

Námo nodded, looking grave. "Here. Nowhere else. Leave this Hall and I will assume you wish to continue your journey to the Presence."

_Well, that's one way of keeping them in check, _Varda said with a laugh, _though I pity Boromir and Éomer. They're not likely to thank you for the pleasure before Elessar arrives._

Námo smiled in his mind. _Boromir and Éomer will do well enough. I have no fear for them. After all, Meriadoc is Éomer's vassal and will obey him._

_And Peregrin? _Manwë asked sounding highly amused by the whole thing.

_Boromir was Captain-General of Gondor and therefore Peregrin's commander, _Námo answered. _He'll keep the youngster in line._

_We can only hope, _came the fervent reply from Varda.

The hobbits were apparently thinking things over. Boromir knelt before them. "I would welcome the company of the Ernil-i-Pheriannath," he said and at Pippin's expression laughed. "Oh yes, Éomer has told me all about what happened after I died. Aragorn must have thought it most amusing when he found that the youngest member of the Fellowship had been declared a Prince by the people of Minas Tirith while he had yet to be recognized as their King."

Pippin had the grace to blush. "It wasn't my idea," he said shyly and the two Men laughed. Námo smiled.

"And I have missed thee, Holdwine," Éomer added, also kneeling, and giving Merry the kiss offered to a vassal by his liege lord. "I think Elessar would enjoy seeing the four of us together when he comes, don't you?"

The hobbits nodded.

"Then I will leave you," Námo said and turned toward the door, then stopped and turned around, looking at the four Mortals with a smile. "By the way... Happy Yule." With that the Hall was suddenly festooned with balsam ropes and holly, candle-lit wreaths and mistletoe. The Lord of Mandos left the Mortals looking stunned.

He was halfway to the Mardi Envinyato when he heard footsteps running behind him. He stopped and turned around to see Merry and Pippin halting before him. He looked at them gravely.

"Meriadoc. Peregrin. Have you changed your minds already?"

Both hobbits shook their heads. It was Merry who spoke. "We just wanted to ask you... do the Valar celebrate Yule?"

Námo shook his head. "No, child, we do not. Yule is a festival of Mortals, to mark the endings and beginnings of their lives between one year of the Sun and the next. The Valar and the Elves have no need to mark such passages of Time."

"Oh," was the hobbit's only reply. Merry gave Pippin a look.

"What is it, children?" Námo asked, kneeling before them.

Pippin blushed. "It's just... we thought... we didn't want you to be alone on Yule... and no one should have to be alone on Yule."

Námo stared at the two hobbits in wonder and delight and then gathered them into his embrace. "Oh my children, you are indeed delightful creatures. Now, why don't you return to your friends?" He stood up to leave them.

"Wh-where are you going, my lord?" Merry asked. "Could Pip and I... er... accompany you?"

"And what of Boromir and Éomer? Will they not miss your company this Yule?"

Pippin shook his head. "They said they didn't mind if we weren't there when we told them why we wanted to follow you... make sure you weren't...weren't lonely."

For a long moment the Vala looked at the two hobbits. He sent a silent question to Manwë who gave his approval, then smiled. "Would you like to see where I will be spending Yule?"

They nodded and Námo offered his hands, which they took. He led them to a particular chamber on the outskirts of the Mardi Envinyato. Inside the hobbits saw four Maiar shining with an inner light. One Maia stood at the head and another at the foot of what looked to the hobbits to be a bier. The other two Maiar stood on either side. As they drew closer they could see that an elven lord lay there, noble and beautiful in sleep. He was naked but a sheet of white sendal covered him. The four Maiar bowed silently to the Lord of Mandos. The hobbits looked to him with questions in their eyes.

"This is Turgon, once King of Gondolin," Námo explained softly and the two hobbits gasped in wonder. They had heard of Turgon and the Fall of Gondolin long ago when their cousin Frodo had told them tales of the Elder Days. "For more than two ages of Arda he has slept, overcome with grief and guilt over the destruction of his city and his disobedience to the Valar. He has yet to come to Judgment."

"J-judgment?" Pippin whispered fearfully.

Námo nodded. "Yes, Peregrin. Turgon has much to answer for, but never fear. He will not suffer unduly and after Judgment will come Forgiveness and he will spend many centuries playing in the Halls of Healing until he is ready to be Reborn."

"Why's he sleeping?" Merry asked.

"His fëa, his soul, has been too sick and weary to endure what he must when he comes to Judgment before the Valar. We have postponed that moment until he is ready to face it, and us. That time is almost at hand."

"And you plan to spend Yule here? Why?" Pippin asked, gazing in wonder at the slumbering elven king.

Námo sat down on a richly carved chair that appeared behind him. The hobbits looked duly impressed. "Because, my children," Námo said in a voice that, for all it's gentleness, was full of deep joy. "Save for these Maiar guardians, Turgon is all alone... and no one should have to be alone on Yule." He then gestured and they saw two chairs, designed with hobbits in mind, appear on either side of Námo's throne. "Happy Yule, my best beloved children," Námo said, gesturing for them to be seated.

"Happy Yule, Lord Námo," Merry and Pippin said together as they climbed into the chairs.

Then, to their utter amazement a single candle-lit wreath appeared above them, hovering over the sleeping Elf-lord, casting a golden glow throughout the dim chamber. Then Námo, Lord of Mandos, began singing an ancient lullaby. Soon, only he and the Maiar were awake.

0-0-0-0

**All words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.**

_Mardi Envinyanto: _The Halls of Healing/The Halls of Renewal, where those elves destined to be Reborn go after death.

_Elleth/ellith: _(Sindarin): Elf-maid/elf-maids.

_Fëa/Fëar: _Soul or spirit.

_Ringarë: _December. In Sindarin this month was called _Girithron_. The 25th of December is the day on which the Fellowship of the Ring set out from Imladris.

_Mardi Firyaron: _Halls of the Mortals.

_Fárëa, Yavanna!: _Enough, Yavanna!

_Sanwë-menta: _Thought-sending.

_Vorondonya: _My Faithful One. A title Manwë often uses for Námo as a reflection of the steadfastness in which the Lord of Mandos carries out his duties as Doomsman of Arda and Lord of the Dead.

_Ernil-i-Pheriannath:_ (Sindarin) Prince of the Halflings. Pippin's title outside the Shire.

**Note: **There is no record of either Merry's death or Pippin's. Éomer died in Fourth Age 63. For purposes of this story I have the hobbits dying within hours of each other seven years after Éomer's death.

**Elwen **is an OC from my story _Elladan and Elrohir's Not So Excellent Adventure, _which can be found at Stories of Arda.


	3. Safe In My Arms

**3: Safe In My Arms**

"Faramir, it's time to wake up."

The voice was unfamiliar, but it was warm and inviting and Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, trusted it implicitly. He slowly opened his eyes, half expecting to be in the Houses of Healing, or even in his own bed. But no, he did not recognize this place.

He felt someone caressing his chest and focused on the person sitting on the edge of the bed. It was a man, or someone who appeared to be a man, dressed in a midnight blue velvet tunic with moonstones and black opals sewn along the hem and neck. He wore a shirt of grey watered silk underneath, his woollen breeches the same shade of grey. His blue-black hair was long, longer than Men usually wore it, and it was carefully braided like an elf's and bound with a circlet of silver. Four black opals surrounding a moonstone graced the center of the circlet. His eyes were slate-grey, but full of warmth and... love.

"D-do I know you?" Faramir asked softly. He found the man's slow rubbing of his chest to be mesmerizing and the intimacy of the gesture left him breathless, but there was no sense of arousal involved. Instead, a deep sense of calm and peace permeated his body and Faramir felt that he could stay this way forever.

The man, if so he was, smiled and nodded. "We met a long time ago." His voice was low and melodious and Faramir had an aching need to crawl into the man's lap and be embraced, but he could not move, did not want to move, in fact. He was content to lie where he was, gazing up into the smiling face of this person who seemed so familiar, yet Faramir was sure they'd never met before.

"You were so lost," the stranger said. "You wandered far, looking for your brother."

"Boromir."

The man nodded, still caressing him. "Boromir. You searched for him but could not find him and you wept, for you were quite small and alone. I found you. Do you not remember, child? I found you and brought you back home for it was not yet your time to follow me. Do you remember the lullaby I sang to you?"

The man began to sing and suddenly Faramir was transported back in time and he gasped as memory opened to him and he knew who sat by him.

"Un-uncle Námo?" he whispered in disbelief.

Námo, Lord of Mandos, smiled broadly and, stopping his ministrations, reached out and gathered the Man into his arms. "Yes, it's your Uncle Námo. You were very, very ill. Do you remember? It was soon after your mother died and everyone thought you might die as well. You almost did, but it wasn't your time and I had to lead you back to your hröa, for you had slipped out of it in the midst of your fever looking for your brother."

Faramir listened to Námo speak, stunned to immobility as he lay in the Vala's embrace. He remembered being very ill with fever and the "uncle" who came and helped him to find his way home when he was lost, but he always thought it was a dream.

"That is what everyone else said, child," Námo said. "Over time, you began to believe it, but now you know it was real, as am I."

Námo gently disengaged Faramir from his embrace and laid him back down. He began singing the lullaby again, resuming his soft caress. As Námo's ministrations continued, Faramir felt more and more contented and at peace. His limbs felt heavy and he had no desire to escape from his bed or from the one who was caressing him.

"Wh-what's happening to me?" he finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper, fear beginning to take hold as the strangeness of his situation began to impinge on his consciousness. "What are you doing?"

"Hush, child," Námo replied, placing a finger on the man's lips. "Do not be afraid. I am merely bringing you to a state of total calm and acceptance. You need to feel safe and I am offering you the chance to feel it again." He began singing again.

Faramir gasped as he felt everything going dim and then he finally blacked out...

0-0-0-0

"Farry, time to wake up."

Little Farry opened his eyes to see his brother, Borry, looking down at him with a smile. He smiled back. "Borry!" He reached out with his hands and Borry lifted him up and held him. Little Farry crowed with delight, happy to be in his big brother's arms and cuddled closer into Borry's embrace. Then he felt himself being put down on the floor and a soft stuffed toy was put into his hands. It was his favorite toy and he hugged it gleefully to him. Borry sat down on the floor beside him, a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.

"Time to eat, Little Brother," Borry said and Little Farry dutifully opened his mouth and let his big brother feed him. It was such a warm experience and such an expression of love on Borry's part that Little Farry began to cry. Someone came into the room just then and picked the crying child up and cuddled him.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Boromir said contritely. "I don't know why he's crying."

"It's not your fault, Boromir," Námo said with a smile. "Your brother is just overwhelmed by emotion is all. Nothing to worry about. Come, sit here next to me and we will see if we can't feed our little one together."

With that, Námo sat in a rocking chair while Boromir brought a stool over and sat down. He held the bowl while Námo took the spoon and began to feed the now quiescent child in his arms, though Little Farry sniffled a time or two before the delight of being cared for and loved by his favorite uncle brought him to a state of calm and he snuggled further into Námo's embrace, falling asleep between one mouthful and the next.

Námo gave the spoon to Boromir and began singing an ancient lullaby as he rocked the child, kissing him on the forehead.

Boromir watched as the Lord of Mandos sang to his brother lying naked in the Vala's arms, fast asleep. He couldn't help but feel anger towards Námo at that moment for debasing his beloved brother as he had. He had been reluctant to play the role Námo insisted he play. Only his deep love for Faramir and Éomer's encouragement (not to mention the hobbits') allowed him to play out this charade.

"It's not a debasement, Boromir, nor is it a charade," Námo said, never taking his eyes off the recumbent Man.

"What is it then?" Boromir asked heatedly, springing to his feet to stare down at his brother and the Vala.

Námo looked up, his expression mild. "A chance for your brother to feel safe as he as not felt so since before your mother died."

Boromir blanched at that and felt his hands clench. "And turning him into a mewling infant is supposed to do that? Do you enjoy watching us crawl on the floor that much that you would reduce us to such a state forever? I'm surprised you haven't made me or Éomer crawl around the floor playing with our stuffed toys and allowing ourselves to be spoon-fed."

Námo sighed, stood up and took Faramir over to his bed and put him down, placing a blanket around him and putting the stuffed toy into the crook of the Man's arm, then giving him a kiss on the forehead. He straightened up and looked at Boromir who hadn't moved, anger and embarrassment for his beloved brother etched on his face.

"Come with me," Námo said, making a sudden decision.

Boromir hesitated as Námo headed for the door. "Fara—"

"He will be watched over, never fear. Now come." The words were mild in tone but Boromir had no doubt that they were a command not to be ignored. With a last look at his sleeping brother he followed the Vala out the door to find himself...

He was surrounded by elves. Naked elves. Playing catch-me of all things. Laughing, singing, dancing. No one paid any attention to them, to him. He might as well not exist.

"You don't. At least, not to them," came the startling words from the Lord of Mandos. Boromir looked at the Vala standing next to him and shivered at the expression on his face. He suddenly felt completely out of his depth.

"Who are they?"

"The Dead, Boromir," Námo said gently. He pointed to one particular elleth clutching a small stuffed toy and staying close to another elleth who had a protective arm around her shoulders.

"Her name is Eluwen. In the days of your ancestor, Cirion, she died at the hands of orcs while attempting to protect her mistress, the Lady Celebrían, wife to Elrond Peredhel of Imladris. You met Celebrían's parents in Lothlórien."

Boromir gasped at the Vala's words, stunned beyond speech and feeling suddenly very young.

"As indeed you are, child," Námo said, not unkindly. He looked back at Eluwen, who was now laughing at something one of the ellyn in their group had said. "She has recently joined us."

"But you just said she died nigh six hundred years ago!" Boromir protested in confusion, for he had learned much of the history of Imladris during his stay there before the Fellowship set out on the Quest.

Námo nodded. "Yes, and she has spent the better part of that time crawling on the floor of her sleeping chamber playing with her stuffed toys and learning to feel safe again. Now she has progressed to the point where she can be with other 'children'. Slowly she is coming back to herself. In time, perhaps another six hundred years from now, but probably sooner, she will have reached the stage where she can be Reborn and will join her husband who awaits her on Tol Eressëa along with their two children."

Boromir stared at the elleth in wonder. "Si-six hundred years! Is that to be my brother's fate as well?"

Námo smiled and put an arm around Boromir's shoulders. "Faramir will take as much time as he needs to feel safe again. If that is six hundred years, what of it? Time has no meaning for the Dead, as well you know."

"Why does he need to feel safe?" Boromir asked in a perplexed tone. "Has he never felt safe in his life?"

"No, child," Námo answered gently. "Your father saw to that."

Boromir flinched at the mention of his father and grimaced. His eyes wandered over the Hall, watching the elves at play and suddenly he had a vision of his brother when he was truly a youngster trailing after his older brother. He realized for the first time that he never once saw Faramir relaxed and at ease. Always there was a sense of wariness about him, as if he expected to have an orc jump out at him at any moment. He looked at the Vala, a grim determination in him. He had always tried to protect Faramir in life; he would continue doing so in death.

"My little brother needs me," he said. "He will want me to play with him when he awakens."

Námo leaned down and gave Boromir a kiss on the brow. "Faramir is most fortunate to have such a loving brother as you, child. Come, let us return you to your proper Hall."

0-0-0-0

When Little Farry woke up he found his brother Borry smiling down at him. He gave a crow of delight and allowed his brother to lift him up and feed him. Then they played on the floor for a long time, Borry helping him with some of the more intricate toys. How long they played together Boromir never knew. In time, he ceased to remember anything but the fact that he was Borry and his little brother Farry needed him. He slept beside his brother, fed him, even bathed him and always they played together.

Whenever the Lord of Mandos appeared Boromir was just as delighted to see 'Uncle' Námo as Little Farry was, perhaps even more so, for the Vala lavished as much love and attention on the older brother as he did on the younger. Boromir would never know that all that was happening was as much for his own healing as it was for Faramir's.

For the first time ever Boromir was experiencing what it felt like not to have any expectations laid upon him by others. Here, he was not Denethor's firstborn. Here, he was not heir to the Steward's throne. Here, he was not even Captain-General of Gondor's army. Here, he was simply Borry and he was loved, not because he was Denethor's son or a great warrior, but because he was Boromir and for no other reason. The freedom from expectation and the unconditional love that went with it was a gift given to him by Námo and Boromir reveled in it, though he did not realize he was doing so.

Little Farry continued to play in the company of his beloved big brother, the only person in his life who had truly loved him. But it was difficult to feel completely safe, even in Boromir's presence. Bedtime was the hardest on him. He had difficulty sleeping and often 'Uncle' Námo would have to come and sing to him before he felt secure enough to fall asleep, even with Borry lying beside him.

"Why doesn't he feel safe, Uncle Námo?" Boromir asked one time, tears in his eyes as he watched his little brother drift off to sleep after Námo had sung to him.

"He will, child," Námo replied gently. "Give him time. He already feels safer now than he ever did and your being here with him has helped."

Boromir had to be content with that as he snuggled closer to Faramir and eventually he, too, fell asleep.

But it wasn't just Little Farry who needed to feel safe. Borry needed to feel safe as well, though he little realized it, safe enough to relinquish his role of 'leader' and allow his brother to take on that role even when Little Farry was not very good at it and messed things up. For the first time for Boromir, the words 'older brother' began to have no other meaning than 'the one who was born first'. There was no longer any expectation of responsibility, the responsibility thrust upon him by his father and by his own need for approval. Here, he was loved whether he led their games or not and Uncle Námo even praised him when he saw Boromir sitting back and allowing Little Farry to take the lead.

One day, as the two brothers were playing, Little Farry suddenly stopped and crawled into Boromir's lap, his favorite stuffed toy nestled in his arms. Boromir cuddled his brother. Little Farry sighed.

"Wuv you, Borry," he lisped then closed his eyes and fell blissfully asleep, feeling warm and loved and, best of all, safe in his brother's arms. Boromir wept. It was the first time his little brother had voluntarily fallen asleep. Námo was suddenly there with several Maiar attendants, one of whom took Faramir into her arms and put him to bed.

The other Maiar gently took Boromir in hand, raising him to his feet and removing his clothing. Without realizing how it happened, Boromir suddenly found himself lying in a tub of warm water and being gently bathed by the Maiar. His tears had ceased by then and he tried to protest but he began to feel a weariness in his limbs, a lethargy of spirit, and allowed himself to be tended to, reveling in the pure pleasure of having others care for him in such an intimate manner, he who had always cared for others, especially Faramir.

It was a new experience and he became overwhelmed by emotions he barely understood and before long he was weeping again, but these were tears of release. The Maiar helped him out of the tub and dried him off. Then Námo was there and lifting him into his arms, cradled him.

"Shh. It is well, best beloved," the Lord of Mandos said. "Faramir is ready now, and so, I suspect, are you." Then the Vala began singing an ancient lullaby and Boromir's tears ceased and he fell asleep.

0-0-0-0

Boromir woke first and woke to himself, remembering all that had occurred. He glanced down at Faramir lying next to him and pondered. How long had they been little children playing on the floor? Had Aragorn died and gone on? How had Éomer and the hobbits fared? He reached out a tentative hand and brushed an errant lock from his brother's face, suddenly overcome with love. He was so engrossed in experiencing the emotions overtaking him that he was unaware that Námo was there until the Vala placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Boromir gave a small gasp and looked behind him.

"How long has it been?" he asked simply, not really expecting an answer, but needing to ask nonetheless.

Námo smiled gently. "Nearly ten years of the Sun have passed in the Outer World since Faramir came here."

"T-ten years!"

The Vala nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached out and stroked Boromir's hair. "Do not fret, child. Aragorn still lives and will for some time yet."

Boromir shook his head. "And I left poor Éomer alone with the hobbits for all that time."

Námo laughed. "Do not concern yourself on his account. Éomer has done quite well for himself and I only had to reprimand Peregrin twice in the last five years."

Boromir grinned slyly. "Do I even want to know why?"

Námo laughed again. "Not unless you're willing to listen to me complain for the next three ages of Arda." Then he bent down, laid a hand gently on Faramir's forehead and called out in a deep voice that left Boromir feeling breathless.

"Lasto bith nîn, Faramir. Tolo 'ni galad!"

Faramir began to stir and soon he was opening his eyes. He looked up into his brother's face, a face he knew so well and had not seen in so long.

"Boromir?" he asked in disbelief.

"Hello, Little Brother, it's about time you woke up," Boromir said with a teasing smile.

Faramir smiled back and then they were embracing and kissing and laughing and Faramir suddenly realized he was no longer in pain. Indeed, he felt better than he had felt in a long time. He pulled back from his brother's embrace to get a better look at Boromir, his eyes glinting with sly amusement.

"So, if you're here that means I'm..."

"Late for an appointment."

Faramir looked up and found himself gazing into the amused eyes of the Lord of Mandos, and recognized him. Without thinking he struggled to rise, but Námo gently pushed him back into the bed and Boromir held him in his embrace as they both faced the Vala.

"My lord, you called me. I come. What does my lord command?"

Námo nodded, pleased at the youngster's response. Here was one who had remained faithful where another had given up hope. Here was one who had welcomed the fulfillment of his House's purpose where another had clung to an imagined authority not his to command. Here was one who helped to usher in the Dominion of Men beside the King with the Light of Stars in his eyes, assuring that the purposes of Eru would not be confounded by false pride and arrogance.

"My servants will help you dress and then there is a place where you need to be. Where you both need to be," Námo said, including Boromir with his eyes as he spoke to Faramir. "When you are ready, step through that door." The Vala pointed to a door that had not been there previously. "I will await you on the other side."

With that the Vala disappeared but before either brother could react several Maiar were there helping them to rise and dressing them. Faramir, they dressed in the formal robes of the Prince of Ithilien: a shirt of white samite and breeches of white kid leather under a knee-length velvet tunic, also white, trimmed with white rabbit fur and sea pearls. On the front of the tunic the White Tree of Gondor was embroidered in gold thread with the sword and rod of the Steward in saltire above it. Soft ankle house boots of white kid leather also trimmed with white rabbit fur graced his feet. They dressed his hair in elvish style and placed a coronet upon his head, a circlet of mithril with a single emerald. It was a copy of the one that the elves of Ithilien had made for him as Prince.

Boromir, they dressed in the black and silver of the Tower Guard with all the insignia of his office as Captain-General of Gondor. He only lacked a sword to complete the picture. The two brothers looked at each other and grinned.

"I see they finally taught you how to dress properly, Little Brother," Boromir said teasingly.

Faramir laughed delightedly, "This from the man who would wear the same set of clothes for days on end."

"But only when on campaign, otherwise I knew how to dress appropriately. You on the other hand..."

Faramir raised a hand to forestall Boromir's comments on his sartorial habits. "I think Lord Námo is waiting for us."

_Yes, I am, _came the thought in their minds, sounding more amused than upset. Both brothers started at the words and blushed in embarrassment; the Maiar standing about grinned. One of them went to the door and opened it and the two Gondorians stepped through. Námo nodded his approval and without a word proceeded down the hall, the two brothers trailing him, exchanging bemused looks.

As they walked Faramir decided to ask Boromir the question that had been in his mind since waking. "Why are you here, Brother?" he asked softly. "Why have you not left the circles of Arda as is the fate of all mortals?"

Boromir shrugged, giving Faramir a slight smile. "I was waiting for you ...and Aragorn. Éomer is here, as well as Merry and Pippin. We're all waiting for Aragorn to join us."

"Is that where we are going, then?" Faramir asked.

"No," Námo replied from ahead, never breaking his stride. "There is a task you must perform, the both of you." He stopped before a door and looked at the brothers gravely. "You must deal with what you will find behind this door as best you may."

"What —" Boromir started to ask, but Faramir laid a hand on his brother's arm. Boromir looked at Faramir in surprise. Faramir, on the other hand, kept his eyes on the Vala.

"We will do what we can, my lord," and he gave a small bow.

Námo nodded. "It is all Eru ever asks of any of us. Go now."

The door silently opened. The brothers glanced at Námo and then at each other. Faramir nodded slightly and the two entered at the same time. Even as they stood there, looking about the chamber, the door closed quietly behind them.

Before them they saw a dais where a man sat on a throne of black marble flanked by two warrior Maiar. A ring of fire, the flames man-high, separated the two brothers from the throne. The light of the flames was the room's only illumination. It took them a moment to recognize who sat there.

"Father." It was but a whisper emanating from Boromir. "He's been here all this time and I never knew."

One of the Maiar stepped down from the dais and crossed the ring of fire as if it weren't there and bowed to them.

"Greetings, Prince Faramir. Greetings Captain Boromir. I am Manveru of the People of Manwë."

Boromir was not sure if he should be upset or amused that the Maia had not addressed him first as the older brother. Instead, he merely smiled and said, "You'll have to blame Faramir for any delay, my lord Manveru. He insisted on playing with his toys first."

Faramir gave his brother a shocked look. "I never did!"

Boromir smirked. "For ten years according to Lord Námo."

Faramir gave Boromir a shrewd look. "And what were you doing all that time?"

"Playing right alongside you," Boromir replied with a laugh, throwing his arm around Faramir's shoulder. "You don't think I would let you have all the fun, do you?"

Faramir rolled his eyes at that but smiled at his brother, ducking his head in embarrassment at the thought of having spent ten years playing with toys. He didn't know why he had no memory of it, but trusted Boromir not to lie to him. He noticed Manveru standing there patiently, smiling at the brothers' banter.

"Forgive me, my lord. It's been a long time..."

Manveru shook his head. "There is nothing to forgive, child. If it had taken a hundred years for you to come here it would have been one and the same for us. We rejoice that you have been reunited with your brother at last."

"May I ask, my lord," Boromir said, "what you are doing here? Why is our father surrounded by flames? Is he a prisoner?"

Manveru shook his head. "When the Lord Denethor first came here, Lord Námo requested us from his brother, the Elder King, that we might serve as guardians to your father until such time as you and Prince Faramir came to him. These flames are not of our making, but of Lord Denethor's and they are not designed to keep him in so much as they are designed to keep others out."

"And yet, you passed through them as if they do not exist," Faramir commented.

The Maia nodded. "Because for me they do not. The wills of you Children have no hold over us who come from the Timeless Halls of Ilúvatar."

"How do we reach him then?" Boromir asked.

Manveru gave Boromir a steady look and when he spoke his tone was grave. "You do not. There is only one mortal who can breach the wall of flame safely, only one whom Denethor will permit past the barriers he has set about himself." His gaze moved to Faramir with these words and Boromir saw his brother blanch and he held out a hand to steady him.

Boromir turned back to Manveru, his face suffused with anger. "Why Faramir? Has he not suffered enough at our father's hand?"

Manveru gazed at the mortal calmly. "It is because he has so suffered that his is the right to pass through the flames if he will." He then turned back to Faramir, his mien becoming gentle. "Your father is lost in darkness and despair, child. Will you not go to him and offer him your forgiveness?"

"I forgave him a long time ago," Faramir whispered, his gaze on his father, a shadowy form through the flickering flames.

"But he needs to hear it, child," Manveru said quietly. "He has waited to hear those words from your very lips for all these years. Will you go to him, Faramir?"

For a long moment Faramir did not answer, but stared through the flames, remembering the last image of his father that he had as he lay in Mithrandir's arms, oil-soaked and fevered.

Boromir watched his brother with concern. He knew what had happened between Faramir and their father, for first Éomer and then Peregrin had told him and he had wept for both of them, though for different reasons. He stood there in anguish, wishing he could save his brother from the pain he must be feeling at the moment, but knew that he could not. This was Faramir's trial and he could do naught but stand idly by and watch.

He felt a hand squeezing his shoulder and looked up in surprise at the Maia who stood there offering him comfort, shining with compassion and love for him, for all of them, including the one who sat behind a wall of flame, lost to himself and all else beside.

Faramir suddenly squared his shoulders, as if coming to a decision and turned to Manveru. "We will both go," he said and he looked at Boromir, his hand stretched out. "You were ever the one who led and I followed when we were children. Will you trust me to lead you now, brother? I go to rescue our father, if I can. Will you come?"

Boromir stared at Faramir in surprise, for he no longer saw his little brother standing before him, but one who held Authority in his hand, a Prince of the Realm who had the favor of the King and the love of their people. Boromir suddenly realized that Faramir had grown beyond him in stature and power and with no sense of mockery in him he placed his hand over his heart in salute and bowed deeply to Faramir. "Be iest lîn, i gaun nîn." Then he took Faramir's hand.

Faramir looked at Manveru and the Maia bowed. "My brother and I will leave you then."

At that the other Maia stepped down from the dais and walked through the flames and bowed to the two mortals. "Hail Prince of Ithilien," he said, offering Faramir his own salute. "Long have we awaited your coming. Now our watch ends and we rejoice that you are here. Eru's grace go with you, with both of you."

With that both Maiar faded away, leaving the three mortals to themselves. Faramir looked at Boromir and smiled. "Are you ready, Brother?"

Boromir only nodded. The two brothers stepped towards the ring of fire and for the first time they could feel the heat of the flames. Boromir felt himself sweating and he gulped nervously. There was an inimical sense to these flames, a hunger emanating from them that left him feeling weak and sick. They were nearly at the edge of the flames when he balked and could not go forward, the fire mesmerizing him to immobility as fear began to overwhelm him. He felt an arm around his shoulders and looked to see Faramir smiling at him, the fire reflected in his face.

"Fear not, Boromir!" Faramir said confidently. "Remain in my arms and you will be safe."

Boromir stared at Faramir and suddenly he realized the truth. It wasn't Faramir who had needed to feel safe, but himself. The last ten years had been for his benefit, not for Faramir, or rather, not strictly for Faramir. If his brother had needed to learn safety it had been in the arms of his beloved Éowyn and in the love and regard of his beloved king. It was Boromir who had needed that lesson, learning to feel safe enough in Faramir's presence to let his brother take the lead when necessary. Only Faramir could lead him harmlessly through the flames of their father's hatred and despair.

He felt hot tears forming and then Faramir took him fully into his embrace and held him through the storm of emotions that swept through him. "I'm so-sorry, Little Brother," he stuttered once he calmed down.

"It is well Boromir," Faramir answered, patting him on the back, then giving him a smile as he released him from his embrace. "Come, our father awaits us. Close your eyes and trust me."

Boromir did just that and with one arm around his brother, Faramir walked confidently through the wall of flame, leading Boromir. Boromir felt the heat of the fire and felt the flames licking at him, but he did not suffer any burns.

"You may open your eyes, Brother," Faramir whispered. Boromir did and glanced at Faramir, seeing not condemnation for his weakness but understanding and sympathy.

"It was a long time before I felt safe around even the smallest fire," Faramir said with a wry smile, "but I had many who loved me and were willing to help me face my fears."

Boromir nodded, feeling humbled and proud at the same time — humbled by his need to trust in Faramir's own strength and proud of his brother who had offered him his love and understanding with such grace. "Let us see to Father."

The brothers stepped up to the throne. Denethor was much as they remembered him, grey before his time, worn down with cares and the lies of the Shadow. His eyes were opened but unseeing.

Boromir knelt by the throne on Denethor's right. "Father, It is I, Boromir. Will you not greet me?"

Denethor, however, either would not or could not respond to his firstborn. Boromir glanced at Faramir, a questioning look in his eyes. Faramir shook his head, then moved closer to Denethor, laying a hand on his father's left arm.

"Father. Look at me." The words were spoken barely above a whisper but there was a ring of command to them that sent shivers through Boromir's soul. His little brother had grown indeed, in both power and majesty.

Slowly, as if from a dream, Denethor blinked and focused his gaze on the person standing before him. "Boromir?"he asked hesitantly.

"Nay, Father. It is I, Faramir." Boromir marveled at the profound love that emanated from his brother. There was no bitterness in his eyes, only forgiveness.

"Where is Boromir?" Denethor asked plaintively. "Where is my son?"

"I am here, Father," Boromir replied, feeling anger towards his father for ignoring Faramir. Denethor looked down and smiled.

"My son. You have returned to me at last."

"Nay, Father," Boromir said. "I would not be here at all were it not Faramir who led me."

"Faramir?" Denethor echoed in disbelief.

"Aye, Father. It was Faramir who braved the flames. It was he who called you to yourself."

"Faramir? Nay, it was you , my son, who called me. Should I not recognize your voice when I hear it?"

"It was my voice you heard, Father," Faramir said softly. There was no trace of recrimination in his voice, nor any resentment.

Denethor looked up at Faramir in confusion. 'You aren't Faramir. Faramir is..."

"What am I Father?" Faramir asked gently.

Denethor gave an anguished moan and closed his eyes. "Faramir is dead. I killed him."

"Not so, Father!" Faramir protested, going to his knees next to Boromir. "I did not die. Do you not remember? Mithrandir and the perian saved me and Aragorn... the king... brought me back to myself as my soul wandered in despair."

Denethor looked uncertain. "You... you are Faramir?"

His eyes drifted towards Boromir for confirmation when Faramir nodded without saying anything.

"Yes, Father," Boromir said with a nod. " It is Faramir. He lived and became a Prince under Aragorn and he remained Steward of Gondor."

Denethor shook his head. "I am Steward..." but his tone was uncertain and confusion clouded his eyes once again. Then he looked down at his sons kneeling before him and realized that his youngest son was attired as a prince yet his oldest was dressed in rags. He suddenly became incensed and stood up. Boromir and Faramir leapt to their feet, stepping down to give their father room.

"Who dares?" Denethor shouted, staring at Boromir. "Who dares debase my firstborn by dressing him in rags?"

The brothers stared at each other in confusion for a moment and then Faramir understood, and gave Boromir a nod. "Compared to me, I think Father thinks you are dressed in rags," he said with a deprecating smile.

"Compared to you, Little Brother, rags are more than I deserve after what I did," came Boromir's surprising answer, though there was no sense of recrimination either for himself or for Faramir, merely an acceptance of what was.

Faramir shook his head. "You did nothing wrong, Boromir. Aragorn... do you know he once told me that the only thing you did wrong at Parth Galen was to get yourself killed? He's never truly forgiven you for that, you know." Faramir gave his brother a sly smile and Boromir had to laugh.

The laughter seemed to bring Denethor out of his silent rage, for he had gone still, his eyes unseeing. "Boromir, my son, what have they done to you?" Denethor reached out to touch his firstborn and Boromir laid his hands on his father's shoulder, a look of compassion on his face.

"They have done nothing, Father," he said. "Do you not see that I wear the uniform of my rank as Captain-General of Gondor? Look, do you not see the White Tree on my tabard?"

Denethor stared at his son's clothes and nodded slowly, then glanced at Faramir briefly before turning back to Boromir. "But you are my firstborn. You should be the one..."

"Nay, Father," Boromir said with a smile. "I am content to be what I am, Captain-General of Gondor's army. Faramir is Steward and Prince of Ithilien and I rejoice that I am able to serve him and my king in whatever capacity they deem appropriate." He gathered Denethor in his arms as the older man began to weep. "Hush now, Father. It is well. I am well. I love you and I forgive you."

Denethor pulled back from Boromir's embrace. "For-forgive me? Forgive me for what, my son?"

Boromir gazed into his father's haunted eyes for a moment and then leaned in and kissed him lightly on the brow. "I forgive you for loving me too much," he said gently, speaking barely above a whisper.

"And I forgive you for loving me too little," Faramir said with equal gentleness as he came to them and kissed Denethor on the brow as well. "I love you Father. Can you not find it in you to love me as well?"

Denethor looked at Faramir as if seeing him for the first time clearly. He shook his head, his voice cracking in shame and horror. "I-I tried to kill you... I don't deserve your love or your forgiveness."

"Nay, Father," Faramir replied with a sad smile. "It was not you who tried to kill me, but Sauron. You were merely an instrument of his dark design to see our House destroyed. He could not abide the thought that the faithfulness of the House of Húrin to our oaths would be rewarded once the King returned. He lured you into darkness and madness for the sole purpose of seeing me destroyed. It was not your fault. I never blamed you."

Denethor stared at his younger son and saw the truth in his eyes and he was overcome with regret at what he had done to Faramir, what he had done to them both and he crumbled to the floor, weeping. Both brothers went to their knees and embraced him.

"Hush, Father," Faramir crooned. "It is well. We forgive you. Now it is time to forgive yourself."

Then Boromir did a surprising thing. He began to softly sing an ancient lullaby and though he had no conscious memory of ever hearing it, Faramir found himself joining in. As they sang Denethor's weeping stilled and he fell asleep, safe in the arms of his sons.

As the last Ruling Steward of Gondor slept, the ring of fire that had continued burning slowly died away, leaving the three mortals in darkness that was nevertheless brighter than any flame.

0-0-0-0

Denethor woke and saw his sons smiling at him.

"Welcome back, Father," Faramir said. "Are you ready to leave this place?"

Denethor looked at Boromir who gave him a slight nod then returned his gaze to Faramir. "Yes, my son. Come, lead me hence, for I deem that you have gone beyond me in all things and I can do naught but follow."

"Nay, Father," Faramir laughed lightly. "It will be you who will lead us hence, for only you have the power to open the door of your own prison. Boromir and I will follow and gladly."

With that, the brothers helped Denethor to rise and suddenly it was as if years had fallen away from their father and he stood before them as they had remembered him in their youth, strong and hale, his hair dark, his eyes bright and clear. Denethor looked upon his two sons and gave, first Boromir, then Faramir, a kiss on the brow. "We will go together."

He took his sons' hands into his and then the door of the chamber began to open of its own accord. The three mortals stepped out and found themselves facing the Lord of Mandos who smiled at them in approval. All three men bowed deeply.

Denethor straightened. "Hail, Lord Námo. I am ready to go to my doom."

Námo raised an eyebrow, humor glinting in his eyes. "I think we can delay that for a time. Would you not rather stay here with your sons?"

Denethor looked at the Vala in confusion. "Stay here? But why?"

It was Boromir who answered. "We are waiting for Aragorn, Father, Faramir and I and others. We wait for the King to join us and lead us to the Presence. Will you not wait with us as well? Will you not greet the King when he comes?"

Faramir took his father's hand in his. "Aragorn always regretted that you were not there to greet him upon his return to Minas Tirith. He wished for nothing but to honor you for your faithfulness as Steward. It grieved him mightily that he could not greet you with a kinsman's kiss, for he always hoped you and he could have been gwedyr."

"Truly?" Denethor asked, uncertainty clouding his eyes as he remembered how he had treated a certain Captain Thorongil, jealous of the love his own father had bestowed on the Northerner.

"Truly," Faramir confirmed. "But stay and see for yourself when he comes."

Denethor looked at his two sons, then at Lord Námo. "I may do this, remain here with my sons?"

Námo nodded. "Yes, child. It is what we have all hoped for and I rejoice that it is so, as does Eru." Then the Lord of Mandos held Denethor's face in his hands and kissed him gently on the forehead, releasing him to do the same, first to Faramir and then to Boromir. When he stepped back the same blank looks were on the faces of all three men as they communed silently with the Source of their being, coming slowly to themselves, their expressions ones of wonder and awe.

Námo nodded in satisfaction. "Come, I will lead you back to Éomer and the periannath." He gave them all a sly smile. "Éomer will be _very _glad to see you."

Boromir and Faramir started laughing at that and when Denethor gave them a bemused look, Boromir laughed even harder.

"Don't worry, Father," Faramir said as he struggled to get himself under control. "We'll explain along the way."

By the time they reached the chamber where Boromir had first found himself after death Denethor was laughing just as hard as the rest of them.

0-0-0-0

_Lasto bith nîn, Faramir. Tolo __'__ni galad!: _(Sindarin) "Listen to my words, Faramir. Come into the light!"

_Saltire: _A heraldic term describing any two heraldic charges crossed diagonally. The Saltire Cross, also known as the Cross of St. Andrew, is found on the flag of Scotland.

_Be iest lîn, i gaun nîn: _(Sindarin) "As you wish, my prince."

_Gwedyr: _(Sindarin) Plural of _gwador: _sworn brother.

**Historical Note: **According to _Appendix A _and the _Tale of Years (Appendix B)_, Faramir died in Fourth Age 82 at the age of 120.


	4. Aragorn In Mandos

**4: Aragorn in Mandos**

Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor, stood in front of a particularly lovely tapestry wondering where everyone was. He knew he was dead. He distinctly remembered saying farewell to his beloved Arwen before offering back his fëa to Eru and then...

It was truly a stunning tapestry, he had to admit, and he did not mind standing there looking at it, but he was feeling somewhat confused. He figured that someone, perhaps Gandalf, would have been there to greet him before he left the Circles of Arda for good, but there was no one. He wasn't sure if he should be angry or amused at the lack of respect being shown to his person and suddenly laughed at the pretentiousness of his thoughts, wishing he had his pipe.

"But the Dead don't smoke," he said aloud just to hear his own voice.

"Not that I've noticed," came the amused response from behind him.

Aragorn gasped and spun around to find himself facing...

"M-my Lord Námo?" Aragorn went to his knees in surprise and not a little trepidation. He remembered Glorfindel telling him tales about this particular Vala, though he suspected that they had been severely edited for the ears of the small mortal child he had been at the time. Nothing could prepare him for the reality of this Vala's Presence and the shock of it left him reeling.

Námo came towards him, a small smile on his face. He was dressed in an ankle-length tunic of black velvet with a belt made of mithril chain inset with black opals. The tunic itself was embroidered in silver thread along the hem, neck and cuffs of the wide sleeves in an intricate pattern of vines and leaves. Underneath he wore a dark grey shirt of figured silk. Over all he wore a sleeveless silk robe open in the front in the same shade of grey as his shirt. His dark hair was elf-braided and upon his head he wore a crown of wrought mithril in the shape of flames with a single red ruby in its center.

The Lord of Mandos reached down and raised the King of Gondor and Arnor and gave him the kiss of peace. "Welcome to Mandos, Estel," Námo said gently. "I have waited long years as you mortals count them for this meeting."

"Y-you have?" Aragorn asked in surprise and silently berated himself for sounding as if he were a fifteen-year-old receiving praise from one of his elven brothers.

Námo laughed. "Indeed. I regret that I was not here to greet you when you first arrived, but..." here he gave the mortal king an appraising look. "Pippin has been especially annoying lately."

Aragorn stared at the Vala for a long moment trying to understand what Námo had just said and then he threw back his head and started laughing. "Even here? I would have thought you would have sent him packing long before this, my lord."

"I wanted to send him and Merry packing, as you say, the moment they arrived, but they were adamant that they were going to wait for you and in truth I didn't have the heart to refuse them."

"They are rather hard to refuse, especially Pippin," Aragorn admitted with a fond smile. "Are there others who..."

Námo smiled and nodded. "You will see them presently. Come. Let us walk."

Together, the Lord of Mandos and Aragorn left the chamber the mortal had found himself in when he first arrived. The corridor they walked down was dimly lit, but Aragorn had no trouble seeing.

"What exactly did Pippin do that was so annoying?" he asked in curiosity and was awarded with a rueful grin from the Vala.

"I will not bore you with the details. Suffice to say that your smallest Guard of the Citadel has a most impressive capacity for getting himself into trouble."

"And let me guess," Aragorn said with a light laugh. "His cousin has an equally impressive capacity for getting him out of it."

"Ah, you know your hobbits well, don't you?"

"These two at least." Aragorn stopped, his expression suddenly pensive as he stared at the floor. Námo watched him calmly, waiting for the mortal to speak. "They've been allowed to wait for me to... to die." He looked up at the Vala. "Does that mean I can wait for Arwen?"

"I do not know, child," Námo said as gently as he could. "That decision is Eru's to make. Lúthien and Beren died within hours of each other and so they left the Circles of Arda together, but Arwen lingers yet and I do not know how long it will take for her to accept her fate and come to me."

"I wanted to stay with her... help her..."

Námo shook his head and placed a comforting arm on Aragorn's shoulder. "That is not how it works, my son. Your time was over. You could not linger, nor would it have helped if you had. She would have clung to your memory all the more and would have refused to take that final step all mortals must take. This way, she must come to me if she wishes to be reunited with you."

Aragorn nodded, not completely convinced but knowing that protesting would do no good. Námo smiled knowingly and took the mortal into his embrace and gave him a hug. "She will come, never fear, my son. Trust that her love for you will show her the way home."

The Vala released him and continued to walk down the corridor. Aragorn followed, remaining silent. Eventually, they came to a door. It was made of crystal and gold and it was beautiful beyond anything Aragorn had ever seen even in the artistry of the elves. Námo stopped before the door and gave the mortal a strange look.

"He has come here only once in all the ages of Arda and then only briefly. That he comes here now is an honor you cannot fully appreciate."

Aragorn gave him a quizzical look but before he could ask what the Vala meant the door silently opened and Námo gestured for him to enter. Stepping across the threshhold Aragorn found himself in a small chamber and standing in the middle of the room was a Being bathed in light that was more than sunlight, which nearly blinded him. He stopped in amazement and awe, for he had a dim idea who this Person might be.

"Come closer, child, and let me greet you," came a voice, deep and warm and full of bells.

Aragorn gathered his courage and stepped closer to the Being and found himself before the Elder King of Arda. Manwë wore a knee-length tunic of azure figured silk with breeches and shirt of the finest lawn dyed a royal purple. Over this was a sleeveless robe the color of which shifted from light blue to midnight blue to indigo and violet and even to a deep dusky rose in no discernible pattern that Aragorn could see. His feet were shod in soft leather ankle boots also dyed royal purple. His eyes were the blue of a summer sky ringed with gold in the center. His hair was a rich brown and he wore an intricately wrought crown of mithril with a single large diamond set in the center, glittering with sapphirine brilliance.

Aragorn went to his knees in awe and without conscious volition raised his hands in the position of a vassal taking oath to his lord. Manwë's smile was brilliant as he bent down and raised the mortal to his feet.

"Nay, my son. I will not accept your oath, for are we not fellow rulers? I greet you, Elessar, as one king to another." Manwë then took the Man into his embrace and gave him the kiss of a sovereign greeting his brother sovereign. Aragorn found himself returning the greeting, though he little thought he was worthy.

"You are far more worthy than you know, otornya," Manwë said as he brushed a gentle hand through Aragorn's hair. "Your coming has been long awaited and I rejoice that we finally have this opportunity to meet. Come, we will walk and you will tell me about your life."

"But surely, lord, you know all that has occurred in my life," Aragorn exclaimed.

Manwë nodded. "Indeed, but I still want to hear it from your own lips." With that he took Aragorn by the arm and together they walked out of the chamber through another crystal and gold door into a garden with Námo following them. Aragorn suddenly felt shy and did not know where to start.

"Start with your earliest memory," Námo suggested and Aragorn complied as the three wandered through the garden. Aragorn found that as he spoke, he did not relate the events of his life in strict chronological order. Instead, one memory would evoke another memory from a different time and circumstance. Occasionally, one or the other of the Valar would ask a clarifying question, but otherwise allowed him to speak as he would. As he related the events of his life, he began to detect a pattern to them that he had never seen before and all that had occurred, good or bad, fell into place for him and made sense to him for the first time.

At one point they were sitting by a small fountain and Aragorn found himself inexplicably weeping as he sat between the Elder King and the Lord of Mandos. "I couldn't save him... I tried... but in the end..."

"Shh, child. It is well," Manwë whispered as he put an arm around the Man's shoulders. "Frodo was not yours to save. That was left for others. Take comfort in the knowledge that you gave him the chance to find healing for himself before the end."

Aragorn sighed, his voice full of regret. "I made so many mistakes..."

"Fewer than most," Námo said softly.

"...and every time I made a decision, even a good one, I wondered how many people would suffer for it."

"The price of being a king I'm afraid, my son," Manwë said in sympathy. "Every decision a person makes, good or bad, has its concomitant consequences, but as a ruler your decisions had graver consequences and for more people. That you were able to make as many wise decisions as you did is a testament to your character and to those who taught you. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Elessar. You ruled wisely and well and your people loved you."

"And your enemies feared you," Námo interjected with a grin. "Not a bad epitaph as such things go."

Aragorn looked down at his hands, his palms up, and sighed again. "I have too much blood on my hands to warrant any real forgiveness."

"Indeed!" Manwë raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "And you are so sure of this? If so, you know more of the mind of Ilúvatar than even I."

Aragorn had the grace to blush. "Forgive me, I fear my arrogance gets the better of me at times."

"And you have much to be arrogant about," the Elder King said with a shake of his head, "but it does not become you, and it is even worse when it disguises itself as false modesty. The blood on your hands is regrettable but acceptable under the circumstances and neither I nor Eru will fault you for it. You killed when necessity drove you, not out of pleasure or spite. Put your mind at ease on that score, my son."

For a long moment no one spoke, the Valar allowing Aragorn the time he needed to accept their words. Finally, he looked up and gave the Elder King the briefest of smiles, shy and unassuming. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome, my son," Manwë said, taking him into his embrace and placing a kiss on his brow, before releasing him and standing. "I must leave you now, Elessar. I wish you joy in Eru's presence."

Then Aragorn was alone with Námo who smiled at the mortal. "Would you like to see your friends now?"

Aragorn nodded and together they rose and went back inside. Soon they were standing before yet another door, this one of plain wood. It opened silently as Námo approached and then Aragorn crossed the threshold.

"STRIDER!"

He had just enough time to go to his knees and open his arms before two hobbits attempted to bowl him over with their enthusiastic greetings. Aragorn laughed with joy as he hugged Merry and Pippin to him.

"Oh my friends, it is so good to see you again."

Neither hobbit said anything to that, merely gave the Man another fierce hug. For a while the three friends remained that way, reveling in each other's presence, but eventually the hobbits disengaged themselves from Aragorn's embrace and the King stood up. He gave Námo a wry grin and then looked down at the two hobbits with something of a stern look. Both hobbits became still.

"I have been hearing some disturbing reports about my smallest Guard of the Citadel," Aragorn said gravely. "Would you care to explain yourself, Peregrin Took?"

Pippin found himself looking down and shuffling his feet like an errant tweenager under Aragorn's regard. "It's... well... I mean... you see..." Pippin stuttered to a halt, blushing furiously.

"I see," Aragorn nodded his head, then turned his attention to Merry, who stared at his friend and king with fearless regard. "And what is your excuse, Meriadoc?"

"The same as usual, Aragorn," the Brandybuck cousin said with a cheeky grin. "And if Lord Námo couldn't control my cousin, what makes you think you can?"

Aragorn smiled. "Lord Námo is too tender-hearted for his own good." He ignored the guffaws coming from the others in the room and refused to look at the Lord of Mandos at all. Námo, for his part, smiled hugely and there was the echo of laughter coming from beyond the Halls that was heard by all. "I, on the other hand, have not a tender-hearted bone in my body..."

"You don't even have a body," Pippin muttered and that was too much for any of them and Aragorn threw back his head and laughed along with the others, taking Pippin by the shoulders and giving him a shake.

"You are incorrigible you young scamp. I look forward to seeing you confound Eru himself."

"And if anyone can do it, it'll be Pippin."

Aragorn looked up to see Boromir coming towards him with a wide grin on his face and with a glad cry gathered the other Man into his embrace. "Boromir! Long have I wished for this moment."

"My king, glad am I to see you once again." Boromir went to his knees and kissed Aragorn's hands in obeisance, but Aragorn raised him up again and gave him a kiss on his brow in greeting, which Boromir returned. "And look! Faramir and Father are here as well."

Boromir turned to gesture to his brother and father and the two came forward. Faramir smiled warmly at his friend and king and Aragorn greeted him gladly. "My brother, you are looking better than when last I saw you."

"I was dying, Elessar," Faramir laughed in amusement as the two embraced. "How was I suppose to look?"

The two Men laughed and Boromir was glad to see the mutual love and respect between his brother and the one who was his king. Then Denethor stepped forward, his expression somewhat uncertain. Aragorn released Faramir and looked at Denethor for a long moment, his expression sad.

"I looked for you, my brother," he said softly, "there before the gates of Minas Tirith, but they said you were dead and I grieved that it was so."

"And I grieve that I was too cowardly to remain to greet you, my king. Madness and despair took me and my own arrogance prevented me from accepting your coming, long though our people had waited for that very day. Forgive me, sire, for failing you in my duty." With those words Denethor knelt before Aragorn and raised his hands in the position of a vassal before his liege lord.

Aragorn did not gainsay him, but took Denethor's hands in his own and listened while the Last Ruling Steward of Gondor uttered the ancient words of allegiance to the King.

"Here do I swear fealty to Gondor, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death..."

Aragorn placed a finger on Denethor's lips before he could complete the final words of the oath, stilling his voice. Denethor gave him a puzzled look. Aragorn merely smiled and with solemn joy answered him. "And I shall not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given. Fealty with love, valor with honor." Then he raised the former Steward to his feet and kissed him on the brow.

At that, Boromir and Faramir surrounded their father and gave him their congratulations and Aragorn was pleased to see Denethor hug his youngest son with as much enthusiasm as he hugged Boromir.

"Well, my brother, it is good to see you once again."

Aragorn looked up to see Éomer standing beside him, grinning. The two kings embraced and gave each other a kiss in greeting. "I am glad to see you as well, my brother," Aragorn replied. "I have missed you."

"And now you are all reunited at last," Námo said, coming forward. He had stayed out of the way, enjoying the reunion of friends. "You have waited for your king and he is here. Now you must leave the Circles of Arda to where others await you."

"Diamond," Pippin said. His smile dimmed at the thought of his beloved wife having had to wait for him beyond the Circles of Arda for all these years.

"Estella," Merry said with a nod.

"Mother," Faramir said and Boromir nodded his head. Denethor looked sad.

Éomer merely grunted but he did not dispute the Vala's words.

Aragorn looked pensive. "Must I too leave Arda? May I not wait for my beloved?"

Námo shook his head. "Eru has decreed it otherwise, my son. If you remain here, within the Circles of Arda, Arwen will sense your presence and will not willingly forsake her life, believing instead that your memory is enough for her. If she can no longer sense you, she will know that only in the release of her fëa will she have the chance to be reunited with you. I know this is hard for you, Aragorn. Trust that Eru will see you united with your beloved in the fullness of time."

Aragorn sighed. "As you wish, my lord. I will not deny that I would wish it otherwise, but I am not foolish enough to defy the will of the Valar or the One above us all."

"So when do we leave?" Pippin asked.

Námo looked at the hobbit with amusement. "_You _leave now. Aragorn, however, will not be joining you. He will follow later."

"Why?" the two hobbits demanded almost at the same time, both looking somewhat rebellious.

Námo gave them his most forbidding look. "Do not question my will in this, Children. Go now. Eru awaits you." He pointed towards a door that had not been there before and it opened of its own accord. The two hobbits sighed and gave Aragorn subdued hugs which the king returned with more enthusiasm. Then the others gave him their farewells.

"Do not linger, my brother," Éomer said with a grin. "I grow tired of waiting for you."

"I will do my best," Aragorn said with a laugh. Then he was alone with the Lord of Mandos who smiled warmly.

"You will not be separated from them long, Estel. There are two more people who have been waiting for you. I thought you would like to greet them alone. Then you may leave together."

"Who..."

"Come. Let me take you to them." With that Námo led him out of the chamber and down the corridor to another door. It opened as they came to it. Námo stopped Aragorn before he went in and took him into his embrace, kissing him on the brow. "Take your time, best beloved. There's no rush."

Aragorn nodded and gave the Lord of Mandos a bow before stepping over the threshold. At first, he saw no one and then out of the gloom two people walked towards him. He gave a gasp as he recognized one of them.

"Nana?"

Gilraen smiled and opened her arms to receive her son. "Estel, my love, how glad I am to see you."

"Nana!" Aragorn cried as he fell into his mother's arms. "Oh, nana. I missed you so much."

"Shh. I know, love. I missed you as well. I'm so proud of you, Estel. So very proud." She held his face between her hands and kissed him gently.

Only then did the one standing next to Gilraen speak. "Have you no greeting for your ada, my son?"

Aragorn looked up in shock to see a man with features similar to his own. "A-ada? You're my ada?" He tried desperately to bring forth a memory of his father, but failed.

Arathorn son of Arador smiled and spread his arms out to welcome his son whom he had not held in over two hundred years. "Yes, my son, I'm your ada."

For a moment Aragorn couldn't move and then with a cry he was in Arathorn's arms weeping. Arathorn smiled indulgently as he rocked his child and Gilraen wrapped her arms around them both, quietly singing a lullaby.

Námo, watching from the doorway, smiled at the sight of this small family being reunited at last and gently closed the door with a satisfied sigh.

He always liked happy endings.

0-0-0-0

_Otornya: _(Quenya) My sworn brother, contracted from _otornonya._ Manwë calling Aragorn "brother" is a testament to the Elder King's true relationship with the legitimate mortal and elvish rulers of Middle-earth in his governance of Arda.

_Nana: _(Sindarin) Mama. Hypocoristic form of _naneth: _mother.

_Ada: _(Sindarin) Papa. Hypocoristic form of _adar: _father.

**Note on Denethor's oath to Aragorn and Aragorn's response: **The complete oath, of course, ends with the words "...or death take me". Since Denethor is already dead, these words are meaningless and Aragorn stops him from uttering them. By the same token, Aragorn does not say the words "oath-breaking with vengeance" (book-verse) for they are now beyond all thoughts of oath-breaking or vengeance and Aragorn is aware that only love and valor remain beyond the grave now.


	5. Somewhere I Have Never Traveled

**5: Somewhere I Have Never Traveled**

She never thought it would be this hard... or this easy.

Hard, because her brothers wept beside her, Elladan stroking her hair while Elrohir held her hand. She did not want to say good-bye, but knew now that it was time.

Easy, because it took so little effort, like slipping off a gown and then she was free of the burdens of the flesh.

She never looked back, but she cried nonetheless — tears of regret, tears of shame. Yes, she admitted to herself, shame. Shame that she was so cowardly as not to have followed her beloved immediately. Shame that she had clung so fiercely to a life that was no life, to memory that was but a shadow of a thought, hardly worth the effort it took to keep it ever before her.

Well, now she was free of it. Free of it all, and her beloved awaited her...

Which is why Arwen's immediate reaction upon reaching Mandos was fury when she found herself alone in a small chamber, its walls covered with beautiful tapestries. In the center of the chamber was an oak table upon which stood a single white jade vase full of red roses.

Why was Estel not there to greet her? Where was he? Had he dared to go on without her? Was his love for her so faint-hearted that he could not bear to wait? How could he...

"Arwen."

She turned suddenly at the sound of her name and saw the last person she expected to see standing there.

"Éowyn?"

The White Lady of Rohan and Princess of Ithilien opened her arms in welcome and Arwen went to her and the two women embraced. "Yes, Arwen, it is I," she said and gave the Queen of Gondor and Arnor a wry smile, "and I see I've come none too soon."

Arwen gave Éowyn a confused look and then noticed where the former Shieldmaid of Rohan was looking. Turning around she gasped. In her fury she had systematically shredded every rose that had been in the vase. Red petals were strewn about and some still floated gently in the air, making their slow descent to the floor.

Arwen was appalled. "I did that?"

Éowyn held her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. "It's a good thing it was only roses, although I think Lord Námo might be a bit upset, seeing as how he was the one who placed them there, to welcome you."

Arwen felt faint. "Lord Námo?"

"Yes, my dear," Éowyn said gently, and though Arwen could not see, her eyes were bright with mirth.

Arwen turned back to face her friend. "Éowyn, what do you here? Where is Estel?"

Éowyn brushed an errant lock from Arwen's forehead. "He has gone on, love. Lord Námo would not allow him to remain."

"But why?" Arwen asked in confusion. "And why are you here instead?"

"Well, as to that," the Princess of Ithilien said, "when I came here I found Faramir was here as well."

"He was waiting for you," Arwen stated simply, smiling at her.

Éowyn gave a deprecating laugh. "Hardly. He, Boromir, Denethor, and my brother, not to mention Holdwine and Peregrine were all waiting for your husband. Faramir urged me to go on. Indeed, I think he would've liked to have come with me, but chose to remain behind for his father and brother's sakes. Lord Námo was escorting me to where I must go when I suddenly conceived the idea to remain behind as well, but not to await a king."

Arwen stared at the younger woman for a moment. "You awaited me."

"Yes, and I begged Lord Námo not to tell my husband," Éowyn said with a mischievous grin that Arwen remembered so well. "The Lord of Mandos actually smiled when I asked him. I think he rather enjoyed the joke."

Arwen raised an eyebrow in disbelief but did not dispute the other woman's words. "And now?"

"That's up to you, of course," Éowyn said with a shrug.

Arwen looked about and sighed. "It is not how I imagined it would be."

"It never is, I fear," Éowyn agreed.

"I just thought... I mean... being a queen... and... having given up my immortality that..."

"That there would be greater fanfare on your behalf?" the White Lady of Rohan enquired skeptically. "Why?"

"Because I died and..."

Éowyn started laughing. "Arwen, of course you died, but there's nothing special about that. People die every day."

"But... but I gave up everything! Everything, Éowyn! Do you not understand?" Arwen was beginning to feel fury again and could not comprehend why her friend thought her sacrifice so meaningless. Had she not forsaken the fate of her people for another destiny? Surely there had to be some meaning to it beyond the fact that she had loved and loved deeply.

Éowyn apparently was unmoved by her histrionics. "Is that all you can think about, Arwen? What you lost? Can you not think of what you gained?"

"What have I gained if my loss is not even acknowledged?" the once Queen of Gondor and Arnor asked mournfully.

Éowyn took her into her embrace and hugged her. "Why this need for acknowledgment of your choice? Do you think it was so earth-shattering an event that all of Arda must stop and admire you for it? Arwen, such choices are made every day by the most ordinary of people. Even I made a similar choice when I turned from warfare to practice healing, when I turned from death to living again, when I turned from infatuation for a man who could never be mine to a love that was true and real. Are my choices less worthy of admiration simply because I am a mere mortal while you are an immortal who made her choice to love one of the Secondborn?"

"You don't know how terrible that choice was for me."

"Then why did you make it?" Éowyn asked gently. "If it was so terrible, why did you make it?"

"Be-because I... loved him too much not to." She began crying and Éowyn held her tightly.

"Then it wasn't so terrible after all, was it my daughter, if you did it for love?"

Arwen looked up in surprise at the deep masculine voice and found herself face-to-face with the Lord of Mandos. He was dressed simply in a knee-length dark grey watered silk tunic with silver embroidery. Underneath he wore a midnight blue figured silk shirt and light woolen breeches of the same color. The tunic was belted with silver discs etched with the image of a tree and on his head he wore a diadem made of wrought mithril with an emerald cabochon. His blue-black hair was elf-braided and his slate grey eyes were full of light and solemn joy.

Arwen found herself going to her knees in awe.

Námo walked over and gently raised her, smiling. "So like Lúthien," he said softly. He then stole a glance at the rose-petal-strewn floor before looking back at Arwen with a wry grin. "She never liked my roses either."

Arwen paled at that and tried to utter an apology but Námo merely laughed and took her into his embrace, giving her a gentle kiss on her brow. "Hush now, daughter. All is well. I thought it quite amusing. You Children are so delightful, and you never cease to amaze me."

Arwen glanced up at the Lord of Mandos doubtfully. "Forgive me, my lord. You don't seem quite as...forbidding as I was led to believe."

Námo gave a long-suffering sigh. "I'm afraid your Noldorin ancestors have a rather dim view of me, given the circumstances. I assure you, my dear, I'm not the heartless bastard everyone makes me out to be."

Éowyn giggled at that and Arwen had to smile as well. Námo nodded. "That's better. Now, you haven't answered my question."

Arwen gave him a confused look.

"Was your choice so terrible if you did it for love?" he repeated gently.

Arwen looked down and thought about it for a moment, remembering her life with Estel, the joys and the sorrows, and knew the truth of it. She looked up at Lord Námo and shook her head. "Nay, my lord. It was not so terrible. It was... it was... often painful and sometimes even joyful, but it was not terrible. No, not terrible."

Námo gave her a slow smile. "That is well, daughter. Your choice was just that, your choice, but as Éowyn pointed out, not any more heroic than the choices of others. Who is to say that the choice of a common-born maid to cleave to one man over another is not more heroic than your choice to cleave to Aragorn rather than to one of your own people? Only Eru can say. Therefore, trust in His love for you whatever your choices might be."

Arwen nodded. "Forgive me, my lord. I fear I allowed... family history to dictate my feelings about this."

"Lúthien's choice was indeed a monumental turning point in the history of Arda. All other choices flow from it in ways that even I who am the Singer of What Is to Come cannot envision, for it is in Eru's purview. The fates of the Eruhíni are beyond our abilities to perceive and we are as much in the dark as you are."

Éowyn stepped forward then and laid a hand on Arwen's shoulder. "Come, sister. Our beloved husbands are waiting for us. We should not tarry."

Námo nodded. "Éowyn speaks truly, my daughter. Allow me to escort you."

"You honor me, my lord," Arwen said simply and gave the Vala her most deferential curtsey.

"The honor, dear lady, is entirely mine." With that he gestured and a door that hadn't been there before opened silently and all three stepped through into a larger chamber flooded with Light that was beyond sunlight, nearly blinding the two women.

Arwen blinked rapidly as two figures stepped out of the Light and she and Éowyn found themselves standing before the Elder King and his beloved Spouse. Both women gave them their obeisance. Lord Manwë smiled upon them and took each woman into his embrace and kissed her on the brow. Varda did the same.

"Thank you my dear," Manwë said to Arwen. "Thank you for your choice. We know it was not easily made or easily lived, but we honor your sincere attempt to follow through with it to the very end."

Arwen looked at them with some confusion and stole a glance at Námo, but it was Varda who spoke. "We do not know why Eru thought it important for you to cleave to Aragorn, only that your union is part of a greater plan. Few could have or even would have been brave enough to choose as you did, and so we honor you Arwen Undómiel Evenstar for what you have given up for love."

With that the Elder King and the Queen of Stars bowed to the Queen of Gondor and Arnor. Námo also bowed to her and dimly she realized that all the other Valar were present in this chamber and all were bowing to her. She felt suddenly faint and was grateful for Éowyn's steady support as the younger woman put a comforting hand on her elbow.

And then, the Valar were gone, save for Námo, whose eyes were bright with such joy that it nearly made them weep.

"Come, my children," the Lord of Mandos said. "It is time for you to leave." He showed them to another door that led into a rough-hewn cavern where a dark river flowed. Before them, moored to a short dock, was a swan-shaped boat. Before helping them into the boat he bent down and gave them each a kiss on their brows.

"May you know joy in Eru's presence, my daughters," he said, "and in the arms of your beloved husbands." He raised his hand in benediction as the boat floated silently away. "Namárië tenn' Ambar-mett' ar i-Envinyatië Ardo."

Then, Lord Námo began to sing. The song was one of such terrible beauty that it caught them up in emotions they hardly recognized as their own. They found themselves laughing and crying at the same time and each heard in the song the story of her own life, the pathos and the comedy, interwoven with a Song that they dimly understood was an echo of the Ainulindalë underlying all of Eä.

They could still hear the song, though faintly now, as they found themselves in a place of exquisite beauty. They saw another dock and waiting for them there were two whom they knew intimately and each was singing his beloved home...

0-0-0-0

"Well, that's the last of them," Lord Námo said.

"Not quite."

The Lord of Mandos gave Frodo a look that normally spelled trouble for the recipient, but the hobbit merely grinned. Sam snorted in amusement watching the two of them. It was close to evening and the three were seated under a shade tree overlooking a small cove nestled on the northwestern shore of Tol Eressëa. Námo was seated on a rock while the two hobbits crouched on the sand before him. Further down the beach was a group of elves trying to pretend that the Lord of Mandos was not there. Sam stole a look at them and sighed.

"They know, don't they?" he asked Námo, scowling. "They know as she's gone."

Námo nodded, "Yes, Samwise, they do. That's why you and Frodo insisted on this picnic, was it not? To take their minds off the fact that Arwen has finally died."

"And it was working until you showed up," Frodo said with a sniff. Námo grinned.

"You promised me that you would leave once Arwen left the Circles of Arda."

"And we will, but Legolas and Gimli are on their way here and Sam and I would like to greet them," Frodo said, running his fingers idly through the gem-encrusted sand sparkling blue and green and red in the light of the setting Sun.

"Gimli must be fairly old by now, Mister Námo," Sam interjected. "We just want to see him off afore we go ourselves. Maybe even go with him."

Námo shook his head. "But Gimli will not be able to take the same road as you and Frodo, Samwise. When he dies he will go to my brother Aulë's hall where his forefathers await the Renewing."

Sam shrugged, not really understanding or caring. "Just like to be there when he does go, is all."

Frodo smiled warmly at his staunch friend and Námo could not help but do the same. There was something about the unaffected manner of this gentle gardener that always moved him. He reached down and placed a hand in benediction on the hobbit's head. "You are a good soul Samwise Gamgee and Eru is well pleased with you." He gave Frodo a brief smile which the Ringbearer returned. "With both of you."

He stood, then, and the two hobbits followed him. "Very well, Ringbearers," he said formally. "Thou hast until the dying of the Dwarf Gimli son of Glóin to remain here, but thou canst not linger past that time. Eru does not wish it... and I, frankly, forbid it." The last was said with an exasperated sigh.

"What's the matter, my lord?" Frodo asked cheekily. "Getting tired of hobbits already?"

Sam gave a snort. "After puttin' up with your two cousins for the last fifty years, I shouldn't wonder if Lord Námo don't ban all hobbits from the Hall of Mandos."

Frodo laughed and the elves further down the beach looked up at the pure sound of it, startled out of their grief for a brief moment to know unalloyed joy. Námo merely grinned. "Was it only fifty years? Seemed like fifty thousand to me."

Now Sam joined in the laughter. When the two hobbits calmed down Námo nodded. "I meant what I said, Frodo. You cannot linger. It is time for you and Samwise to leave Arda. Bilbo's waiting you know."

Frodo nodded. "I know, my lord. And I am sorry we've been such a trial to you."

Námo knelt in the sand, smiling gently as he gathered the two hobbits into his arms. "Never a trial, my best beloved. It has been a joy and an honor to know you both." Námo hugged them and gave them both a kiss on the brow before releasing them. "I must go now," he said, rising.

"Sure you don't want to stay, Mister Námo, sir?" Sam said, sounding like an excited tweenager, his eyes bright with anticipation. "Gandalf's promised fireworks."

Námo smiled wryly. "I don't think your friends would appreciate my presence, Samwise."

Now it was Frodo's turn to snort. "Perhaps not, my lord," he said, "but I would think even you could use a bit of a holiday every now and then." Námo raised an eyebrow at that but did not comment. Frodo nodded his head towards the elves. "Best they get used to the idea of Arwen finally gone so they can move on. Your presence will help them to come to terms with what they so desperately want to forget."

"And what do they want to forget, child?" Námo asked.

"That soon it'll be our turn," Frodo replied simply and Sam nodded in agreement.

For a moment the Lord of Mandos looked at the two hobbits and then he offered his hands and they each took one. Without another word the three began walking back towards the elves who eyed their approach warily. Námo saw Elrond and Celebrían, their fair faces pale and etched with grief. Galadriel was there, as well as other elves of Imladris and Lothlórien, all grieving for one they feared they would never see again. Olórin stood to one side, smiling gently, giving his lord a brief nod in greeting.

"I've invited Lord Námo to stay and see the fireworks," Frodo said as they reached the elves, speaking in a tone of voice they had all come to recognize.

Several eyebrows were raised at that. Elrond stepped forward and gave Námo a bow. "It... it will be... an honor, my lord," he said quietly, not quite looking at Námo.

The Lord of Mandos gave the half-elf a sympathetic smile and took a couple of steps closer so as to place his hands on Elrond's shoulders. "She knows only joy, child," he said with as much gentleness as he could. "Have faith that Eru will not diminish that joy by denying you your own. Someday you will meet again."

Elrond gave a stifled sob and Námo gathered him into his arms as the once Lord of Imladris finally released his grief. Námo then opened an arm towards Celebrían and she came to him as well. Frodo and Sam stood there in sympathetic silence, reaching up to rub the elves' backs and offer them comfort. Even in their grief the other elves around them noticed that Frodo wore a faint smile on his face and wondered.

Then, Námo began singing an ancient lullaby and all grief was stilled as they listened to the First Song that had welcomed the Children to Arda, echoed now in the waves that Ulmo sent upon the beach and in the cry of the seabirds winging their way through Manwë's domain, even as the first of Varda's stars began to appear in the evening sky, their own song clear and remote, a descant to Námo's singing. Eärendil appeared and the light of the Silmaril fell upon them, bathing them all with its brilliance.

As the Lord of Mandos finished singing, an awed silence fell upon the elves as they felt their grief wash away. Then, in typical hobbity fashion, Sam was heard to say, "Now, how about those fireworks?"

The laughter that rang from the cove was heard in Kortirion and beyond and the bells of Avallonë rang long and merrily into the night.

0-0-0-0

_Arda: _(Quenya) The world, but more correctly, our solar system.

_Eruhíni: _(Quenya) Children of Eru.

_Namárië tenn' Ambar-mett' ar i-Envinyatië Ardo:_ (Quenya): "Farewell until World's-end and the Renewing of Arda".

_Eä:_ (Quenya) The Universe.

**Note: **The title is taken from a poem by e e cummings. While I'm not an e e cummings fan, this is one of my favorite poems:

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond  
any experience, your eyes have their silence:  
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,  
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me  
though i have closed myself as fingers,  
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and  
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,  
as when the heart of this flower imagines  
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals  
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture  
compels me with the color of its countries,  
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes  
and opens; only something in me understands  
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)  
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands


End file.
